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A THRILUHG 
PUBUCATiON 


i j^n J9stonisitinq Nave/ 

HENRY KUTTNER 


MARTIAN GESTURE 




■ 

ntNSAUiii; piciuB pmduciii 



TT? here’s something that will in- 

XX? terest you. 

Not a magic formula — not a get-rich-quick scheme— 
but something more substantial, more practical. 

Of course, you need something more than just the 
desire to be an accountant. You’ve got to pay the price 
—be willing to study earnestly, thoroughly. 

Still, wouldn't it be worth your while to sacrifice 
some of your leisure in favor of interesting home study 
—over a comparatively brief period ? Always provided 
that the rewards were good — a salary of $3,000 to 
$ 10,000 .> 

An accountant’s duties are interesting, varied and of 
real worth to his employers. He has standing! 

Do you feel that such things aren’t for you.’ Well, 
don’t be too sure. Very possibly they can be 1 

Why not, like so many before you, investigate 
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accountancy position? 

Just suppose you were permitted to work in a large 
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accounting principles and solved problems day by day 
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problems became complex — soon 
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Will recognition come? 'The only answer, as you 
know, is that success does come to the man who is really 
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VoL 18, Na 3 A THRILLING PUBLICATION January, 1949 



A Complete Norel 

THE TIME A^IS 

Ey HENRY KCITNER 

Rich man, scientist, soldier, scribe, these are 
summoned to a far-distant future that they may 
save a galaxy from the threat of creeping doom! 13 


Tfro CcHnplete Noyelets 

THE SUB-STANDARD SARDINES. Jack Vance 98 

Magnus Ridolpb becomes involved in the most fantastic business 
partnership in all the history of galactic development! 

MARTIAN GESTURE Alexander M. Phillips 112 

What were those strange Sashes of light that destroyed cities of 
Shentol? A Hall of Fame classic reprinted by popular demand 


Short Stories 

FLAW John D. MacDonald 83 

“I never thought much about the frontier of the stars until. . . 

THE STORY OF ROD CANTRELL Murray Leinster 88 

Scientist Jugg plans to enslave the world with his force-held torpedo 

THE nSSION MAN R. W. Stockheker 135 

Perhaps they still know him as Dr. John Norman — or lust as Project X 

FORBIDDEN VOYAGE Rene LaFayette 142 

George Carlyle knew the way to the Moon — but authorities blocked him 

Features 


THE ETHER VIBRATES (Announcements and Letters) The Editor 6 

SCIENCE FICTION FAN PUBLICATIONS A Review 168 

SCIENCE FICTION BOOKSHELF A Department 176 


Cover Painting by Earle Bergey — Illustrating “The Time Axis” 


OTABTUNQ STORIES. PublitiKd every other moatb b? Better Pubtioattons. me.. N. L. Pines, President, at 4600 Dlrersey 
Am, Chicago 39, lU. Editorial and ecxecutise offices, 10 40th St., Mew ¥<»k 16, N. T. Entered as second'class matter 

November 22, 1946, at the post office at Chicago. Dtinois, luuler the act of Karoh S, 1879. Copyright. 1948. by Better 
Pffi>Uratlons, lac. Subeciiption (12 issues). $3.00; single copiee, $.25; foreign and Canadian pokage extra. In oorre* 
sending with this magazine pleaee iiuAude postal zone number, if any. ManusorixiCs will not be returned unless 
accompanied by sf^-addressed, stamped eareioim Mtd are a^Haitted at the author's risk. Names of lUl characters asod 
lA stories and sesol-flctiCQ artiolea are flotittous. If the nane of any living person or existing institution la used. It is a 
eoiaoideiioa. ^PBIMISD IN Ti^ U. S. A* 



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J UST one h'lmdred and fifty-one years 
ago Thomas Robert Malthus, former 
ninth wrangler of Jesus College, Cam- 
bridge and former Curate of Albury, pub- 
lished a famoUs^ treatise upon the principle of 
population. From this was developed his still 
more famous Essay on Population, which for- 
warded the quite reasonable proposition that 
the future of mankind was sharply limited 
by the food raising capacity of the world. 

It was Dr. Malthus’ idea that while growth 
of population,, unchecked, increased in geo- 
metrical ratio, agriculture increased in the 
vastly slower arithmetical ratio. Thus hu- 
manity was virtually foredoomed to starve 
itself to death. 

All in all it was a sane if pessimistic fore- 
cast. But it is doubtful if, despite present 
starvation conditions in much of the world, 
any greater proportion of humanity is today 
going hungry than went without sufficient 
vitamins in Dr. Malthus’ era. And this despite 
a trebhng of population throughout the 
world. 

Malthusians, as the Malthus followers are 
generally known, didn’t know about a lot of 
things that were going to happen. There was 
the vast world colonization of the nineteenth 
century, for instance, to say nothing of mod- 
em agricultural machinery, which increased 
food production beyond all expectation. And 
another factor that spoiled the deal was the 
fact that humanity, by and large, cares too 
much for the full stomach to let itself starve 
for the sake of a theory, no matter how pro- 
found it may be. 

Healthy Cynicisn 

What we are-trying to get at is that theo- 
ries, no matter how reasonable they may 
look and sound, are things to view with a 
; healthy cynicism. 'The one big hitch in all of 
tiiem is that they are propoimded by humans 
— and no human yet lives who can foresee all 

• 


influences operating on even the most 
minescular of apparent facts. 

Charles Fort had this distrust of the pedan- 
tic to a marked degree — and whether one 
finds him nestor or nincompoop, one must 
respect his almost virulent suspicion of es- 
tablished ideas. Inevitably, every formula for 
the future must succumb to the exigencies 
of the present of which it inevitably becomes 
a part. This goes for Marxists (those Canu- 
tist folk who seek to force humanity and 
history into line with the one-note philoso- 
phy of their single-Smith-Brother prophet) 
as well as Malthusians. 

In the past the western world lived for 
some centuries with the Copernican theory 
— which had a dish-shaped Terra inhabiting 
the diametric center of the rmiverse. You all 
know what happened to that one. 

Gravitation Works 

And when Isaac Newton was beaned by 
the apple he laid down the laws of attraction 
which we call gravitation. That one has 
stood up pretty well to date — chiefly because 
it worked. Currently scientific deep thinkers 
and others (notably Roger Babson, who is 
seeking nullification of the entire law) are 
digging or attempting to dig more deeply into 
the question of what enables Chinese, Aus- 
tralians and others to walk upside down 
without falling into space. 

We would hate to bet that Sir Isaac’s ap- 
plefaU theorem’s days are imnumbered. 
Usually investigation brings new factors into 
the open which upset the best-laid theories. 
Result — ^a new set of rules which endure im- 
til a still newer set of principles are brought 
to bear upon it. 

Mind you, without such “rules" it is doubt- 
ful if human thinking would have progressed 
at all. Each operates within the range of 
factors known to its evolvers, ultimately ^- 
(Omtimted om page S) 



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THE ETHEH VIBHATES 


( Continued from page 6) 

abling them to rear upon it something more 
broadly gauged. 

But no theory, during its period of use, de- 
serves the worship accorded it by those un- 
fortunate humans who like a tidy world of 
thought, with each and every idea neatly 
dovetailing into both its neighbors. It has its 
uses, yes. But it is dollars to the proverbial 
perforated crullers that it just ain’t so. 

Plenty of allegedly intelligent folk have 
fought and bled and died for the idea that a 
straight line is the shortest distance between 
two points — utterly forgetting that there 
simply cannot be a straight line that will 
cling to the surface of a sphere such as 
Earth. 

Readers of science fiction are, for the most 
part, great theorists. They must be or they 
would not enjoy the speculative basis upon 
which all science fiction is reared. Occasion- 
ally, as this column has revealed in its letters 
from readers, they cling stubbornly to some 
pet formula until hit over the head so hard 
that they regretfully loosen their grip. 

The idea that nothing is actually so in the 
realm of the mind seems to panic too many 
people. But nothing that they cling to can 
change the shiftiness of all human concepts. 
In so clinging they are playing Canute all by 
themselves with the tide of the imagination 
— and just as fruitlessly. 

Once this concept is accepted it ceases to 
hold terror for anyone. Theories become the 
speculations they actually are and, by play- 
ing with them in proper perspective, the 
range of thinking is increased beyond all 
limits. Such freedom is the basis of all crea- 
tive thought — and only in creation can any of 
us find lasting satisfaction. 

Actually, of course, our theory that all 
theories are in themselves without reality is 
as fallacious as any other idea advanced by 
a member of the species jestingly referred 
to as homo sapiens. But we’re trebly darned 
if we aren’t going to cling to it anyway. So 
be it. 


OUR NEXT ISSUE 

R od CANTRELL, whose trick of tele- 
portation does considerable world- 

(Continued on page 10) 



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THE ETHER VIETATES 


(Continued from page 8) 


saving in our current issue, emerges under 
the able guidance of author Murray Leinster 
as Ae chief figure in THE BLACK GAL- 
AXY, the complete novel which leads the 
story parade of STARTLING STORIES for 
March. 


His other-world gadget has enabled him to 
become the pioneer interplanetary explorer 
of Earth and he is infuriated with a politics- 
ridden Space Project Committee. He and 
his secretary, pretty Pat Bowen, visit the 
Stellaris, first real space-ship, which Cantrell 
has been designing, before he is kicked up- 
stairs to a desk job he doesn’t want. 

Construction is still going on and, through 
a worker’s accident, the ship, still incomplete 
and utterly unarmed, is sent flashing into 
the “other” space, a universe of complete 
darkness, in which its hyper-drive operates. 

Cantrell has been removed from his job 
as chief space-explorer because of his in- 
sistence, thanks to a booby-trapped pyramid 
of strange design he found on Calypso during 
one of his previous space-flights, that some 
intelligent species, hostile to all other spacG- 
ti'avelers and their worlds, has long bem 
roving the star lanes. At some time, perhaps 
a few thousand years ago, they have utterly 
wiped out an advanced Martian civilization 
and left the planet dead and gutted behind 
them. 

The Stellaris and its passengers — hardly a 
crew in any sense of the word — are virtually 
a space-derelict and forced to rely upon their 
wits and ingenuity, as well as Cantrell’s bril- 
liant leadership. They are tracked down by 
the alien race, who travel in immense pyra- 
mids and are utterly foreign and vicious to 
all hiunan concepts. 

Before the final battle is fought amid the 
shining stars Cantrell and his little group , 
have traveled through a journey that makes 
this novel one of the most scientifically in- 
genious as well as stirring science fiction 
stories ever to emerge from the Leinster 
typewriter. March means a big novel in SS. 

Clifford D. Simak’s fine novelet, THE 
LOOT OF TIME, is back for a Hall of Fame 
encore. This simply written, highly imag- 
inative tale is one of the best space operas 
after the old school ever written. It tells of 
men of today who, in the first of all time ma- 
( Continued on page 150) 


10 





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CHAPTER I 
Encounter in Rio 


Rich man, scientist, soldier, scribe, are 
summoned to a far-distant future to 
save a galaxy from creeping death! 


T he whole thing never happened and 
I can prove it — ^now. But Ira De 
Kalb made me wait a billion years to 
write the story. 

So we start with a paradox. But the 


strangest thing of all is that there are liS 
real paradoxes involved, not one. This is 
a record of logic. Not human logic, of 
course, not the logic of this time or this 
space. 



Through the Core of Time9 a Strange Quartet 


I don’t know if men will ever journey 
again, as we journeyed, to that intersection 
of latitude and longitude where a shell hangs 
forever — forever and yet not forever, in 
space and out of space — on the axis stretch- 
ing through time from beginning to end. 

From the daawn of the nebulae to the 
•twilight of absolute entropy, when the frame- 
work of the cosmos has broken down into 
chaos, still that axis will stretch from dawn 
to dusk, from beginning to end. For as this 
world spins on an axis through space, so the 
sphere of time spins on its own axis. 

I never understood the ultimate answer. 
That w'as beyond rne. It took the combined 
skills of three great civilizations far apart in 
time to frame that godlike concept in which 
the tangible universe itself was only a single 
factor. 

And even then it was not enough. It took 
the Face of Ea — which I shall never be able 
to describe fully. 

I saw it, though. I saw it, luminous in the 
reddish dusk, speaking to me silently above 
the winds that scour perpetually across the 
dead, empty lands of a day yet to come. I 
think it will stand there forever in an empty 
land on a dead planet, watching the endless 
night draw slowly on through days as long 
as years. The stars will stand and the Earth- 
nekropolis will stand and the Face will stand 
there forever. I was there. I saw it. 

Was there? Will be? May hef I can’t 
tell now. 

But of all stories in the world, this more 
: than any needs a pattern. 

Since the beginning is in the past, before 
men as such existed at all, the only starting 
place I know is a temporal and personal one, 
when I was drawn into the experiment. 
Now that I know a little more about the 
nature of time it seems clearer to me that 
past, present and future were all stepping 
stones, arranged out of sequence. The first 
step took place two months ago. 

'That was here in this time and space. Or 
in the time and space that existed two months 
i ago. There’s been a change. . . . 

* * * Ht ♦ 

OW this is the way it used to be. 

For me, the Big Ride. You start 
when you’re born. You climb on the tobog- 


gan and then you’re off. But you can only 
have the one ride. No use telling the ticket- 
taker you want to go again. They shovel 
you under at the end of the slope and there’s 
a new lot of passengers waiting. You’ve had 
your three-score and ten. And it’s over. 

I’d ridden the toboggan for thirty-five 
years. Jeremy Cortland, Jerry Cortland of 
the Denver Post, the Frisco Call-Bulletin, 
PM, AP, Time, Colliers — sometimes staff, 
sometimes roving assignments. I leaned out 
of the toboggan and plucked fruit from the 
orchards as I sped by. Strange fruit, some- 
times. Generic term is News. And that 
covers a lot of territory. 

There was a splinter in the toboggan’s 
seat. I had on red flannel underwear. I had 
a nervous tic. I couldn’t sit still. I kept 
reaching out, grabbing. Years of it, of by- 
lines that said “cabled by Jeremy Cortland.” 

Russia, China, war coverage, Piccard’s 
bathyscaphe, the supersonic and alto- 
stratosphere planes, the Russian earth-borer 
gadget, the Big Eye at Palomar — the coal 
strikes and the cracker lynchings and that 
dirt farmer in North Dakota who suddenly 
began to work miracles. (His patients didn’t 
stay cured, you remember, and he disap- 
peared.) 

The Big Ride. In between I grabbed at 
other things. One marriage, one divorce. 
And more and more binges. Long bouts, 
between assignments. I didn’t give a — well, 
you can’t use that word in some papers. But 
it was all right. What did I expect, heaven ? 

The eyes aren’t quite as clear as they used 
to be. The skin under them is a little puffy. 
One chin begins to be not quite enough. But 
it’s still the Big Ride. With a splinter in the 
seat. 

Dodging alimony payments, I skipped to 
Brazil, got in on a submarine exploration 
of the Amazon, wrote it up, sold it to AP 
as a feature. The first installment appeared 
on the same day as another little item — ■ 
buried in the back — that said 85 and 87 had 
been made artificially. 

Astatine and francium — the missing link 
in the periodic table — two billion years ago 
you could have picked up all the astatine and 
francium you wanted, just by reaching down 
and grabbing. If you’d been around at the 
time. Since then 85 and 87 have decayed 



Must Travel to Battle the IJltimate Nekron! 


into other elements. But Seaborg and 
Ghiorso at UC made them synthetically, with 
the big cyclotron and atcwnic oven transmu- 
tation, a^ the column on one side of that 
trivial item said SECOND BURN-DEATH 


that concerned me though J didn’t know it at 
the time. It seemed that Ira De Kalb was 
working with Military Intelligence on some 
sort of highly secret project — so secret ycni 
could read all about it as far south as Rio 



The britiient newel webbtng bed simplified, and fbere was e pale glow banging erer Hie motionless figwe 

(CHAP. XIX) 


VICTIM FOUND, and on the other there 
was a crossword puzzle. 

I didn’t care, either. 

Those deaths, by an indefinable sort of 
burning, were just starting to confound the 
United States authorities at the time. They 
hadn’t yet ^read to Soutli America. 

There was another item in that same paper 


if you had the price of the paper. I didn’t 
care about that eitter — not then. 

I had my own current problem. And it 
was a very odd one. 

The thing started six weeks before it 
began. You’ll have to get used to paradox — 
which isn’t paradox once you grasp the idea. 

It started in an alky in Rio, a little cobbled 



STARTLING STORIES 


m 

^tunnel opening off the Rua d’Ouvidor, and 
what I was doing there at three o’clock of a 
dimmer morning in January I’ll never be 
able to tell you. I’d been drinking. Also I’d 
been playing chemin de fer and there was a 
thick pad of banknotes in the inside pocket 
of my white jacket, another stuffed into the 
dark wine-colored cummerbund I was wear- 
ing. 

Looking down, I could see the toes of my 
shoes twinkling in the moonlight as I walked. 
The sky twinkled too, and the lights up in 
the hills and out on the bay. The world was 
a shiny place, revolving gently around me. 

I was rich. But this time it was going to 
last. This time I'd cut out the binges and 
take a little house up in Petropolis, where 
it’s cool, and I’d really get down to work 
on the analysis of news-coverage I’d been 
planning for so long. I’d made up my mind. 
I was drunk but I’d be sober again and the 
resolution would stay behind when the liquor 
died. 

I don’t often get these fits of decision but 
when they come they’re valid enough and I 
knew this one was serious. That was a 
turning point in the career of Jerry Cort- 
land, there in the moonlight on the checkered 
pavement. 

What happened at the mouth of that 
alley I’ll never really know. Fortunately 
for me I couldn’t see or realize it clearly, 
being drunk. 

It sprang from the deep shadow and put 
out two arms at me. That much I’m sure 
of. Two arms that never touched me. They 
never meant to. They shot past my ears, and 
I heard a thin hissing noise and something 
seemed to turn over in my mind, leisurely, 
like a deep-buried thought stirring to life. 
I could all but feel it move. 

I touched it. 

I wish I hadn’t. But I was thinking of my 
money. My hand closed on the thing — on a 
part of it — no one will ever know on just 
what. I can only tell you it was smooth with 
a smoothness that burned my hand. Friction 
burned it, I think now. The sheer velocity 
of the thing, though it was not then moving 
perceptibly, took a neat thin layer of cuticle 
off my palm wherever it touched. I think it 
slid out of my grip on a thin lubrication of 
my own skin. 

You know how it is when you touch some- 
thing white-hot? For an instant it may feel 
cold. I didn’t know I was burned. I closed 
my hand hard on the — on whatever It was 


I had hold of. And the very pressure of the 
grip seemed to push it away, otff of my hand, 
very smooth and fast. All I know is that a 
moment later I stood there, shaking my hand 
because it stung and watching something 
dark in the moonlight vanish down the street 
with a motion that frightened me. 

I was too dazed to shout By the time 
my wits came back it had disappeared and 
the feeling of unreality it left behind made 
me doubt wlaether I had ever seen or felt it 
at all. 

About ten minutes later I found my money 
was gone. 

S O IT wasn’t a turning point in my life, 
after all. If things had worked out 
any differently I never would have met Ira 
De Kalb. I never would have got myself 
mixed up in that series of deaths which so 
far as I was concerned were only signposts 
pointing the way to De Kalb. Maybe it was 
a turning point, at that. 

The mind as well as the senses can be 
awfully slow sometimes. The hand doesn’t 
know it has been burned, the mind can’t 
recognize the impossible when it confronts 
it. There are many little refuges for a mind 
that must not admit to itself the impossible 
has happened. 

I went back to my hotel that night and gc^ 
into bed. I had met a thief, I told myself 
drowsily, as I’d deserved — walking a city 
street that late at night, loaded down with 
cash. I had it coming. He’d got my money 
and that was that. (He — it — hadn’t touched 
the money, or me, except in that one brief 
unbalanced Instant. The thing was im- 
possible. But since it had happened, then 
it ztwj possible and the mind could dismiss 
it.) I went to sleep. 

And woke at dawn to the most extraordi- 
nary experience I’d ever had in my life, up 
to then. Even that encounter on the Rua 
d’Ouvidor hadn’t been’'like this. 

The experience was pure sensation. And 
the sensation was somewhere inside me, 
vaguely in the solar plexus region — a soimd- 
less explosion of pure energy like a dazzBng 
sun coming into sudden, radiant being. 
There aren’t any accurate words to tdl 
about it. 

But I was aware of ring after ring of 
glowing vitality bursting outward freon that 
nova in the deepest nerve-center of my body. 
For a timeless instant I lay there, bathed in 
it, feeling it pour like a new kind of blood 


THE TIME AXIS 


through my veins. In that instant I knew 
what it was. 

Then somebody turned off the power at 
its source. 

I sat up abruptly, empty of the radiance, 
empty as if it had never happened, but filled 
terribly with the knowledge of what had 
caused it. 

My head ached from the sudden motion. 
Dawn made the sky light outside and brim- 
med the room with a clear gray luminous 
pallor. I sat there holding my head in both 
hands and knowing — knowing— thzt some- 
where in the city an instant ago a man had 
been killed. 

There was no shadow of doubt in my 
mind. I was as sure as if I had had that 
strange sensation a hundred times before 
and each time seen a man die as it burst into 
a nova-glow inside me. 

I wanted to go back to sleep and pretend 
it had been a dream. But I knew I couldn’t. 
I dragged myself out of bed and into my 
clothes. I took my aching head and jangled 
nerves down into the street and found a 
yawning taxi-driver. 

You see, I even knew where the dead 
man would be found. It was unthinkable 
that I should go there looking for him — but 
I went. And I found him. He was lying 
huddled against the rim of a fountain in a 
little square not far from the place where I’d 
last seen my — my thief — of the night before 
vanishing with that disquieting, smooth 
swiftness in the moonlight. 

The dead man was an Indian, probably a 
beggar. I stood there in the deserted square, 
looking down at him, hearing the early 
morning traffic moving noisily past, knowing 
someone would find us here together at any 
moment. I had never seen a victim of the 
bum-death before but I knew I looked at one 
now. It wasn’t a real bum, properly speak- 
ing. Friction, I thought, had done it. The 
eroded skin made me think of something, 
and I looked at my own palm. 

I was standing therej'^ staring from my 
burned hand to the dead man and then back 
again, when — it happened again. 

The bursting nova of pure radiance flared 
into violence somewhere near the pit of my 
stomach. Vitality poured through my 
veins. . . . 

I sold the series to AP as usual. There 
had been five of the murders in Rio before 
I got my idea about putting an end to them 
and 1^ then the stories had begun to hit 


the States papers, some of them running 
picture along with the sensational stuff about 
the deaths, and my uncanny ability at locat- 
ing the bodies. 

Looking back now, I suppose the only 
reason they didn’t arrest me for murder was 
that they couldn’t figure out how I’d done it. 
Luckily my hand had healed before the police 
and the papers began to connect me so tight- 
ly with the deaths. 

After the fifth murder I got a reservation 
for New York. I had come to the conclusion 
that if I left Rio the murders would stop — 
in Rio. I thought they might begin again in 
New York. I had to find out, you see. By 
then I was in pretty bad shape, for the best 
of reasons— or the worst. Anyhow, I went 
back. 


CHAPTER II 
The Stain and the Stone 


T here was a message waiting for me 
at the airport. Robert J. Allister wanted 
to see me. I felt impressed. Allister runs 
a chain of news and picture magazines sec- 
ond only to Life and Time. 

I phoned for an appointment, and they 
told me to come right up. I walked through 
a waiting-room full of people with prior 
appointments and they passed me right into 
the sanctum, with no preliminaries. I began 
to wonder if I’d been underestimating my 
own importance all these years. 

Allister himself rose behind his desk and 
offered me his hand. I waded forward, 
ankle-deep through Persian carpets, and 
took it. He told me to sit down. His voice 
was tired and he looked thinner and mtmt 
haggard than his pictures. 

"So you’re Jerry Cortland,” he said. 
“Been following your Rio stuff. Nice woiic. 
Care to drop it for awhile?” 

I gaped. He gave me a tired grin. 

“I’d like you to work for me on contract,” 
he said. “Let me explain. You know lira 
De Kalb?” 

“The poor man’s Einstein?” 

“In a way, maybe. He’s a dilettante. He’s 
a genius, really, I suppose. A mind like a 
grasshopper. He’ll work out a whole new 
concept of mathematics and never bother to 
apply it. He — ^well, you’ll understand better 


18 STARTLING STORIES 


after you’ve met him. He’s onto something 
very new, just now. Something very im- 
portant. I want some pieces written on it 
and De Kalb made a point of asking for 
you.” 

“But why?” 

“He has his reasons. He’ll explain to 
you — maybe. I can’t.” He pushed the con- 
tract toward me. “How about it?” 

“Well — ” I hesitated. My ex-wife had 
just slapped another summons on me, ali- 
mony again, and I could certainly use some 
money. “I'll fay it,” I said. “But I’m irre- 
sponsible. Maybe I won’t stick to it.” 

“You’ll stick,” AMister said grimly, “once 
you’ve talked to De Kalb. That I can 
guarantee. Sign here.” 

De Kalb’s house blended into the hillside 
as if Frank Lloyd Wright had kiilt it with 
his own hands. I was out of breath by the 
time I got to the top of the gray stone ter- 
races linked tc^ether by gray stone steps. 
A maid let me in and showed me to a room 
where I could wait. 

“Mr. De Kalb is expecting you,” she 
said. “He’ll be back in about ten minutes.” 

Half the room was glass, looking out upon 
miles and miles of Appalachians, tumbled 
brown and green, with a dazzling sky above. 
There was somebody already there, ap- 
parently waiting too. I saw the outlines of 
a woman’s spare, straight figure rising al- 
most apologetically from a desk as I entered. 
I knew her by that air of faint apology no 
less than by her outline against the light. 

"Dr. Essen!” I said. And I was aware 
then of my first feeling of respect for this 
job, whatever it was. You don’t get two 
people like Letta Essen and Ira De Kalb 
under the same roof for anything trivial. 

I knew Dr. Essen. I’d interviewed her 
twice, right after Hiroshima, about the work 
she’d done with Meitner and Frisch in 
establishing the nuclear liquid-drop concept 
of atomic fission. I wanted very much to 
ask her what she was doing here but I didn’t. 
I knew I’d get more out of her if I let it 
come her way. 

“Mr. De Kalb asked me to meet you, Mr. 
Cortland,” she said in her pleasant soft voice. 
“Hello, It’s nice to see you again. You’ve 
been having quite a time in Rio, haven’t 
you ?” 

“Old stuff now,” ■ I said. “This looks 
promising, if you’re in on it. What’s up, 
anyhow?” 

She gave me that shy smile again. She 


had a tired gentle face, gray curls cut very 
short, gray eyes like two flashes of light off 
a steel beam when she let you meet her 
direct gaze. Mostly she was too shy. But 
when you caught that rare quick glance of 
hers it was almost frightening. You realized 
then the hard dazzling mind behind the eyes. 

“I’ll let Mr. De Kalb tell you all alwut 
that,” she said. “It isn’t my secret. But 
you’re involved more than you know. In 
fact — ” She paused, not looking at me, but 
giving the corner of the carpet a gentle 
scowl. “In fact. I’d like to show you some- 
thing. We’ve got a little time to spare, and 
I want your reaction to — to something. 
Come with me and we’ll see.” 

I followed her out into the hall, dow'n a 
flight of steps and then into a big room, 
comfortably furnished. A study, I thought. 
But the bookshelves were empty now and 
everything was lightly filmed with dust. 

“The fireplace, Mr. Cortland,” Dr. Essen 
said, pointing. 

I T WAS an ordinary fireplace, gray stone 
in the pine-panelled wall, with a gray 
stone hearth. But there seemed to be a stain 
at one spot on the hearth, close to the wall. 
I stepped closer. Then I knelt to look. 

The speed of a chain of thoughts comes 
as close as anything I know to annihilating 
time itself. The images that flashed through 
my mind seemed to come all at once. 

I saw the stain. I thought — transmutation. 
There was no overt reason but I thought it. 
And then before I could take it in clearly 
with my conscious mind, in the chambers of 
the unconscious I was standing again at the 
alley mouth in Rio at three in the morning, 
seeing a dark thing leap forward at me with 
its two hands outstretched. 

I heard the thin humming in my ears, 
felt the burning of its touch. I remembered 
the sunburst of violent energy deep inside 
me that had heralded murder whenever it 
came. And I knew that all these were one 
— all these and the stain upon the hearth. 
The knowledge came unbidden, without 
reason. But it was sure. 

I didn’t question it. But I looked very 
closely at the stone. That stain was an 
irr^ular area where the stone seemed 
changed into another substance. I didn’t 
know what the substance was. It looked 
wholly unfamiliar. The gray of the hearth 
stopped abruptly, along an irregular pattern, 
and gave place to a substance that seemed 


19 


THE TIME AXIS 


translucent, shot through with veins and 
striae that were lighter, like the veins in 
marble. 

The pine panels beside the fireplace were 
partly stained like the stone and a little area 
of the carpet that came up to the edge of 
the hearth. Wood, stone and cloth alike had 
turned into this — this marble stain. The 
veins in it were like tangled hair, curling 
together, embedded like some strange neural 
structure in half-transparent flesh. 

I looked up. 

“Don’t touch it,” Dr. Essen said quickly. 

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t need to. I knew 
what it would feel like. I knew that though 
it was perfectly motionless it would burn 
my hand with friction if I touched it. Dr. 
Essen knew too. I saw that in her face. 

I stood up. “What is it?” I a^ed, my 
voice sounding oddly thin. 

“The nekron,” she told me, almost absent- 
ly. She was searching my face and the keen- 
ness of her gaze was almost painful to meet. 
“That’s Mr. De Kalb’s word for it. As good 
a word as any. It’s — a new type of matter. 
Mr. Cortland — ^you have seen something 
like this before?” Her rare, direct look was 
like the sharpness of a knife going through 
me, cold and deep. 

“Maybe,” I said. “No, never, really. 
But—” 

“All right, I understand,” She nodded. 
“I wanted to verify something. I’ve verified 
it. Thank you.” She turned away toward 
thfe door. “We’d better get back. No, 
please — no questions yet. I can’t possibly 
explain until after you’ve seen the Record.” 

“The Record? What—” 

“It’s something that was dug up in Crete. 
It’s — peculiar. But thoroughly convincing. 
You’ll see it soon. Shall we go back?” 

She locked the door behind us. 

Certainly De Kalb didn’t look his forty- 
seven years any more than a Greek statue 
does. He looked like a young man, big and 
well proportioned. His sleek hair lay flat 
and short upon his head, and his face was 
handsome in the vacant way the Belvedere’s 
is. 

There was no latent expression upon it 
and you felt that no emotions had ever 
drawn lines about the mouth or between the 
brows. Either he had never felt any or his 
control was such that he could suppress all 
feeling. There was the same placidity you 
see in the face of Buddha. 

There was something odd about his eyes 



The box opened like a flower that had as 
many facets as a jewel (CHAP. Ill 



STABIXJNG STCHtlES 


20 

— couldn’t make out their color. Th^ 
seemed to be filmed as though with a cat's 
third eyelid. Light blue, I thought, or gray, 
and curiously dull. 

H e gave me a strong handshake and 
collapsed into an overstuffed chair, 
hoisted his feet to a hassock. Gnmting, he 
Winked at me with his dull stare. There 
was a curious clumsiness to his motions, and 
when he spoke, a curious ponderous quality 
in his diction. He seemed to feel something 
like indulgent contempt for the rest of the 
world. It was all right, I oppose. Nobody 
had better reason. The man was a genius. 

“Glad you’re here, Mr. Cortland," he said 
hoarsely. “I need you. Not for your intelli- 
gence, which is slight. Not for your ph3rsical 
abilities, obviously sapped years of waste- 
ful and juvenile dissipation. But I have an 
excellent reason to think we may w«k wefl 
together.” 

“I was sent to get an kiterview for 
Spread,” I told him. 

“You were not.” De Kalb raised a fore- 
finger. “You err through ignorance, sir. 
Robert Allister, the publisher of Spread, is 
a friend of mine. He has money. He has 
agreed to do the world and me a service. 
You are under contract to him, so you do 
as he says. He says you will work with 
me. Is that clear?” 

“Lucid,” I told him. “Except I don’t 
work that way. The contract says I’m to 
handle news assignments. I read the fine 
print too. There was no mention of 
peonage.” 

“This is a news assignment. I shall give 
you an interview. But first, the Record. I 
see no point in futile discussion. Dr. Essen, 
will you be kind enough — ” He nodded 
toward a cupboard. 

She got out a parcel wrapped in cloth, 
handed it to De Kalb. He held it on his 
knee, unopened, tapped his fingers on its 
top. It was about the size and shape of a 
portable typewriter case. 

“I have showed the contents of this,” he 
said, “only to Dr. Essen. And — ” 

“I am convinced,” Dr. Essen said dryly. 
“Oh yes, Ira. I am convinced!” 

“Now I show it to you,” De Kalb said 
and held out the package. "Put it on the 
table — so. Now draw up a chair. Remove 
the wrappings. Excellent. And now — ” 
They were both leaning forward, watching 
me expectantly. I glanced from them to 


the battered box, then l»ck again. It was 
a tarnished blue-white rectangle, battered, 
smudged with dirt, perfectly plain. 

"It is of no known metal,” De Kalb said. 
“Some alloy, I think. It was found fifteen 
years ago in an excavation in Crete and 
sent to me unopened. Not intentionally. 
Nobody has ever been able to open it until 
recently. It is, as you may have guessed, a 
puzzle box. It took me fourteen years to 
learn the trick that would unlock it. It is 
also apparently indestructible. I shall now 
perform the trick for you.” 

His hands moved upon the battered sur- 
face. I saw his nails whiten now and then 
as he put pressure on it. 

“Now,” he said. “It opens. But I shall 
not watch. Letta, will you? No, I think it 
will be better for us both if we l<x>k away 
while Mr. Cortland — ” 

I stc^yped listening along about then. For 
the box was slowly opening. 

It opened like a jewel. Or like an un- 
folding flower that had as many facets as a 
jewel. I had expected a lid to lift but nothing 
of the sort happened. There was movement. 
There were facets and planes sliding and 
shifting and turning as though hinged, but 
what had seemed to be a box changed and 
reassembled and unfolded before me until it 
was — what? As much as jewel as anything. 
Angles, planes, a shape and a shining. 

Simultaneously there was motion in my 
own mind. As a tuning fork responds to a 
struck note, so something like a vibration 
bridged the gap between the box and my 
brain. As a book opens, as leaves turn, a 
book opened and leaves turned in my mind. 

All time compressed itself into that blind- 
ing second. There was a shifting reorienta- 
tion, motions infinitely fast that fitted and 
meshed with such precision the book and 
my mind were one. 

The Record opened itself inside my brain. 
Complete, whole, a history and a vision, it 
hung for that one instant lucid and detailed 
in my mind. And for that moment outside 
time I did comprehend. But the mind could 
not retain it all. It flashed out and burned 
along my nerves and then it faded and was 
otdy a pulse, a glimpse, hanging on like an 
after-image in my memory. I had seen — 
and forgotten. 

But I had not forgotten everything. 

Across a gulf of inconceivable ecms a Face 
looked at me from red sky and empty earth. 
The Face of Ea. . . . 


niE TIME AXIS 21 


The room spun around tne. 

“Here,” Dr. Essen’s voice murmured at 
my shoulder. I looked up dizzily, took the 
glass of brandy she offered. I’m not sure 
now whether or not I had a moment of 
unconsciousness. I know my eyes blurred 
and the room tilted before me. I drank the 
brandy gratefully. 


CHAPTER III 
The Vision of Time 


D E KALB said, “Tell us what you saw.” 

“You — ^you’ve seen it too?” The 
brandy helped but I wasn’t yet steady. I 
didn’t want to talk about what had flashed 
through my mind in that unending, dissolving 
glimpse which was slipping fragment by 
fragment out of my memory as I sat there. 
And yet I did want to talk. 

“I’ve seen it.” De Kalb’s ponderous nod 
was grim. “Letta Essen has seen it. Now 
you. Three of us. We all get the same thing 
and yet — details differ. Three witnesses to 
the same scene tell three different stories. 
Each sees with a different brain. Tell us 
how it seemed to you.” 

I swirled the brandy around in my glass. 
My thoughts swirled with it, hot and potent 
as the liquor and as volatile. Give me ten 
minutes more, I thought, and they’ll 
evaporate. 

“Red sky,” I said slowly. “Empty land- 
scape. And — ” The word stuck in my 
throat. I couldn’t name it. 

“The Face,” De Kalb supplied impatient- 
ly. “Yes, I know. Go on.” 

“The Face of Ea,” I said. “How do I 
know its name? Ea and time — time — ” 
Suddenly the brandy splashed across ray 
hand. I was shaking with reaction so violent 
I could not control it and I was shaking be- 
cause of time. I got the glass to my lips, 
using both hands, and drained what was 
left. 

The second reaction passed and I thought 
I had myself under control. 

“Time,” I said deliberately, , letting the 
thought of it pour through my mind in a 
long, cold, dark-colored tide that had no 
motion. Time hasn’t, of course. But when 
you see it as I did, at first the concept makes 
Ae brain rock in your skull. 


“Time — ahead of our time. Uncountable 
thousands of years in our future. It was all 
there, wasn’t it? The civilizations rising 
and falling one after another until — the last 
city of all. The City of the Face.” 

“You saw it was a city?” De Kalb leaned 
forward quickly. “That’s good. That’s very 
good. It took me three times to find that 
out.” 

“I didn’t see it. I — I just knew.” 

I closed my eyes. Before me the empty 
landscape floated, dark, almost night, under 
the dim red sky. 

I knew the Face was enormous. The side 
of some mountain had been carved away 
to reveal it and, I su{>posed, carved with 
tools by human hands. But you had the 
feeling that the Face must always have been 
there, that one day it had wakened in the 
rock and given one great grimace erf im- 
patience and the mountainside had sloughed 
away from its features, leaving Ea to look 
out into eternity over the red night of the 
world. 

“There are people inside,” I said. “I 
could feel them, being there. Feel their 
thoughts, I suppose. People in an enormous 
city, a metropolis behind the Face.” 

“Not a metropolis,” De Kalb said. “A 
nekropolis. There’s a difference. But — yes, 
it’s a city.” 

“Streets,” I said dreamily, sniffing the 
empty glass. “Levels of homes and public 
buildings. People moving, living, thinking. 
What do you mean, nekropolis?” 

“Tell you later. Go on.” 

“I wish I could. It’s fading.” I closed my 
eyes again, thinking of the Face. I had to 
force my mind to turn around in its tracks 
and look, for it didn’t want to confront that 
infinite complexity again. The Face was 
painful to see. It was too intricate, too in- 
volved with emotions complex beyond our 
grasp. It was painful for the mind to think 
of it, straining to understand the inscrutable 
things that experience had etched upon those 
mountain-high features. 

“Is it a portrait ?” I asked suddenly. “Or 
a composite? What is the Face?” 

“A city,” De Kalb said. “A nation. The 
ultimate in human destiny — and a call for 
help. And much more that we’ll never 
understand.” 

“But — ^the future!” I said. “That box — 
didn’t you say it was found in Crete? Dug 
up in old ruins ? How could something from 
the past be a record of our own future? It 



dl>esn’t make sense. ~ 

“Very little makes sense, sir, when you 
come to examine the nature of time.” De 
Kalb’s voice was ponderous again. He 
heaved himself up a little and folded his thick 
fingers, looking at me above them with 
veiled gray eyes. 

“Have you read Spengler, Mr. Cort- 
land?” he asked. 

I grimaced and nodded. 

“I know, I know. He has a high irritant 
value. But the man had genius, just the 
same. His concept of the community, mov- 
ing through its course from ‘culture’ to dead 
and petrifying ‘civilization’ is what hj^pened 
to the city of the Face. 

“I said ‘happened’ because I have to use 
the past tense for that nekropolis of the 
future. It exists. It has accomplished itself 
in time as fully as Babylon or Rome. And 
the men in it are not men at all in the sense 
we know. They are gods.” 


"They are gods,” he went on. “Spengler 
was wrong, of course, in thinking of any 
human progress in one simple, romantic 
curve. You have only to compare four- 
teenth century Rome with sixteenth century 
Rome to see that a nekropolis, as Mumford 
calls it, can pull itself together and become 
a metropolis again, a Hving, vital unit in 
human culture. 

“I have no quarrel with Spengler in his 


H e looked at me as if he expected 
me to object. I said nothing. 


Pvrtupi it WM t dnm in wkith the waters et ttaae parted abe«c as 

22 



The csminand of the eyes were 
irresistible, and the eomniand 
was— Sleep (CHAP. XXilf) 


interpretations of a culture within itself. 
But both he and Toynbee went astray in their 
ideas of the symbolic value of a city. When 
you go further into the Record you’ll see 
what I mean.” 

He paused, put out a large hand and 
fumbled in a dish of fruit on the table at his 
elbow. He found an orange and peered at 
it dubiously, hefted it once or twice, then 
closed his fingers over it and went on with 


23 


his discourse. 

“In a moment,” he said, “I want to show 
you something with this orange as an illus- 
tration. First, however, I must do Spengler 
the justice of allowing the validity of his 
theories, in the ultimate. The City of the 
Face has run its course. It is a nekropolis, 
in the sense that Mumford uses the term. 

“In our times, a nekropolis such as Rome 
once was, and such as New York must be 
someday, needn’t mean the end of our civili- 
zation, because a city isn’t a whole nation. 
There were outlying villages that flourished 
all the better when Rome ceased to dominate 
their world. When the dark ages closed over 
Europe it wasn’t by any means the end of 
the civilized world — elsewhere on the planet 
new cultures were rising and old ones flour- 
ishing. 

“But the City of the Face is a very diff- 
erent matter. 

“That City is really Nekropolis and there 
are no outlying villages to carry on, no out- 
lying cultures rising toward fruition. In all 



STARTUNG STORIES 


24 

that world there is only the one great City 
where mankind survives. And they aren’t 
men — ^they are gods. Gods, sir!” 

“Then it can’t really be a nekropolis,” I 
objected. 

“It need not be. That’s up to us.” 

“How?” 

“You saw my hearth. Dr. Essen showed 
you the stain of plague that is creeping 
across it. Oh yes, my friend, that stain is 
spreading ! Slowly, but with a rate of growth 
that increases as it goes. The negative mat- 
ter — no, not even negative. Not even that. 
But it happened to the world of the Face. 
That whole planet is nekronic matter except 
for the City itself. 

“You didn’t sense that from your first 
experience with the Record ? No? You will. 
The people in the City can’t save themselves 
by direct action on the world around them. 
They appeal to us. We can save them. I 
don’t yet know how. But they know or they 
wouldn’t have appealed in just the way they 
did.” 

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let me get 
this straight. You’re asking me to accept a 
lot, you know. The only premise I’ve got to 
believe in is the — the Record. But what do 
you want from me, personally? How do I 
come into it? Why me?” 

D E KALB shifted in his chair, sighed 
heavily, opened his fingers and peered 
at the orange he held as if he had never seen 
it before. He grimaced. 

“Sir, you’re right. I accept the rebuke. 
Let me give you facts. Item, the Record. It 
is, in effect, a book. But not a book made 
by human minds. And it must, as you know, 
be experienced, not read. Each time you 
open the box you will get the same flash of 
complete vision, and each time you will for- 
get a little less as your mind is conditioned. 
But there will always be facets of that tre- 
mendous story which will elude us, I think. 
Our minds can never wholly grasp what lies 
inside that box. . . . 

“It was found in Crete. It had lain there 
perhaps three thousand years, perhaps five 
thousand — I think, myself, a million. It came 
into my hands half by accident. I could not 
open it. Off and on I tried. That is my 
habit. I used X-rays to look through the 
substance of the box. Of course I saw noth- 
ing. 

“I detected radioactivity, and I tested it 
with certain of the radio-elements. I ex- 


posed it to supersonics. I — well, I tried 
many things. Something worked. Some- 
thing clicked the safety, so that one day it 
opened. You see — ” He looked at me 
gravely. “You see, it was time.” 

“Time?” 

“That box was made with a purpose, 
obviously. It was sent to us, with a message. 
I say to us but the aim was less direct. It 
was sent through time, Mr. Cortland' — 
through time itself — and the address said 
simply, ‘To be opened only by a skilled tech- 
nological civilization.’ ” 

“All right,” I said. “Suppose it came 
through time. Suppose it’s an appeal for 
help. I didn’t get that, but I’m willing to 
believe I might if I opened the box often 
enough. But why do you assume this is a 
living issue, here and now? You imply the 
fate of the City depends on us. If that box 
is as old as you say, isn’t it more likely the 
City of the Face existed sc«newhere in the 
prehistoric past? 

“They made a record^ — I can’t deny that. 
They cast it adrift in time like a note in a 
bottle and it floated ashore here and we read 
it. Sure. But it makes a good enough news- 
story for me the logical way — a relic of a 
dead civilization a million years old. That 
I could write. But — ” 

“You are not here to write a news story, 
sir !” De Kalb’s voice was sharp. 

“That’s what my contract says I’m here 
for.” 

“You were chosen,” De Kalb said heavily. 
“You were chosen. Not by Allister. Not 
by me.” He shifted uneasily. “Let me go 
on a little.” He peered ^ the orange, tossed 
it up and caught it with a smack in his palm. 
“I opened the box for the first time,” he 
said, “in my studio. 

“You’ve seen it. I saw the box unfolding 
like a flower. For the first time in a million 
years — opening up in four dimensions, or 
perhaps more than four, with that tesseract 
motion which the eye can only partly see. 
But that first time, sir— something more 
happened.” He paused, hesitated, said in 
a reluctant voice, “Something came out of 
the box.” 

I waited. Dr. Essen, who had scarcely 
moved since this talk began, got up abruptly 
and went to stand at the window, her back 
to us,- looking out over the great brown 
tumble of mountains beyond. 

“It came out of the box,” De Kalb said 
in a rapid voice, as if he didn’t want to talk 


THE TIME AXIS 


about this and was determined to get it over 
as fast as he could. “It passed me. It leaped 
toward the fireplace. And it was gone. 
When I looked, I saw nothing. But that 
evening I noticed the first spot of the stain 
upon the stone. In the stone. It meant little 
to me then — -I had not yet learned enough 
from the Record to be afraid. But I know 
now.” 


CHAPTER IV 
The Laurentian Story 


A gain I waited. This time I had to 
prompt him. 

“Know what?” 

“The nekron,” he said. “It’s growing. 
It will never stop growing, until — ■” He 
paused, shrugged. “We have to believe 
they’re in the future,” he said. “We have 
to help them. They made sure of that. For 
unless we do the nekron will grow and grow 
until our world is like theirs — dead matter. 
Inert. Nekronic. I call it that because it is 
death. 

“An absolutely new form of matter, the 
death of energy. It breaks a supreme law 
of our universe, the law of increasing en- 
tropy. Entropy trends toward chaos, 
naturally. But the nekron is the other ex- 
treme, a pattern, a dead null-energy pattern 
of negation.” 

“You mean,” I demanded, “that the peo- 
ple of the City deliberately set a trap for the 
man who first opened the box?” 

“They had to. They had to make sure 
we’d answer their appeal to save ourselves.” 

“Then you’re convinced they exist in the 
future, not the past?” 

“You saw the Face. Y’ou were aware, you 
say, of the waves of civilization rising and 
falling between our time and theirs? How 
can you doubt it, then, Mr. Cortland?” 

I was silent, remembering. 

“It doesn’t matter,” De Kalb went on. 
“That question is purely academic. Past or 
future is all one in the time-fabric you will 
understand better after you’ve opened the 
box again.” 

“But,” I said, “how can we help them? If 
they can’t destroy the menace to their own 
world, whatever it is, how could we? It’s 
ridiculous. And anyhow, if time-travel was 


25 

possible for the box — which I don’t for a 
moment really accept — how could it be pos- 
sible for tangible, living men from our time? 
And if it were, how could you be sure you 
weren’t dashing off to save a city that would 
prove when you found it to be already dead? 
Overwhelmed a million years ago? How is 
it—” 

“No, no, Mr. Cortland!” De Kalb held 
up a large hand with an orange balanced on 
its palm. “You have so much to learn! 
Allow me the intelligence to think of those 
objections myself! Surely you don't imagine 
all that hadn’t occurred to me already? 

“The answer is that the nekron can be 
destroyed — or at least that the problem it 
poses can be solved. I believe it can be 
solved only by this method — three men and 
one woman must go into the future age that 
hold the Face of Ea. For that, apparently, 
was the original plan of the people of the 
Face.” 

“What makes you so certain of that?” 

“A number of factors. The Record zuas 
sent to our civilization, remember?” 

I had him there. “But it was found in 
Cretan ruins, you said.” 

“Certainly. And the ancient Minoans 
didn’t open it. I suspect the Record existed 
long before the time of Theseus — but it re- 
mained unopened until a neotechnical civili- 
zation had developed on this planet. Only 
men — and women — who were products of 
such a culture would have the qualities 
necessary to solve the nekronic problem.” 

“Why didn’t they send the Record directly 
to our era? Why did they miss the right 
time by thousands of years?” 

“I am no expert in the specialized restric- 
tions of time-traveling,” De Kalb said, with 
some irritation. “It may be that too-accurate 
aim is impossible. How can I tell that? 
The Record reached the right hands. I can 
easily prove that.” 

UT I was searching for errata. “You 
said we’d have the qualities that could 
solve the nekronic problem — destroy it, I 
suppose you mean. Well? Have you solved 
it?” 

De Kalb lost his ill-temper and beamed 
at me. “No,” he said. “Not yet. The 
nekronic matter itself is very curious — 
atypical, completely. It is absolutely non- 
reactive. It has no spectrum. It emits no 
energy. No known reagent affects it in the 
slightest degree. It is a new type of matter, 



STARTLING STORIES 


26 

plain and simple. I cannot destroy it — not 
yet; Not now. But I believe I can do it with 
the guidance and aid of the people of the 
Face. As a matter of — ” 

The telephone on the table beside him 
buzzed sharply. Dr. Essen swung around 
with a start. De Kalb grunted, nodded at 
her, muttered, “I’m afraid so,” as if in 
answer to a question and took up the tele- 
phone with his free hand. 

It sputtered at him. 

“All right, put him on,” De Kalb said in 
a resigned voice. The receiver buzzed and 
sputtered again. De Kalb’s placid features 
grimaced, smoothed out, grimaced again. 
“Now Murray,” he said. “Now, Murray — 
no, wait a minute ! Confound it, Murray, 
allow me to' — I know you are, but — ” 

The telephone would not let him speak. 
It crackled angrily, a word now and then 
coming out clearly. De Kalb listened in 
resigned silence. Finally he heaved himself 
up in the chair and spoke with sudden 
resolution. 

“Murray,” he said sharply, “Murray, 
listen to me. Cortland’s here.” 

The phone crackled. De Kalb grinned. 
“I know you don’t,” he said. “Probably 
Cortland doesn’t like you either. That's not 
important. Murray, can you come up here? 
Yes, it is important. I have something to 
show you.” He hesitated, glanced at Dr. 
Essen, shrugged. “I am casting the die, 
Murray,” he said. “I want to show you a 
certain box.” 

“You know Colonel Harrison Murray?” 
De Kalb asked. I nodded. I knew and dis- 
liked him for personal qualities quite apart 
from his ability. He was old army. West 
Point, a martinet. He had the violent, un- 
controlled emotions of an hysterical woman 
and the mechanical brilliance of a — well, a 
robot. 

No one could deny his genius. He prided 
himself on being scrupulously just, which he 
wasn’t. But he thought he was. A fine tech- 
nician, a genius at strategy and tactics. He 
confirmed that in the Pacific, back in ’45. 
I’d done a profile on him once and he hadn’t 
liked it at all. 

“You’re taking him in on this?” I asked. 

“I’ve got to. He can make it too hot for 
me unless he understands. You see. I’ve 
been working with him on— never mind. 
But he insists I go on with it. He can’t see 
how important this new business is.” 

“Tra.” Dr. Es.sen out in timidlv. “Ira. do 


you really think it’s wise? To. bring the 
colonel in yet, I mean. Are you sure?” 

“You know I’m not, Letta.” He frowned. 
“But there’s so little time to be lost, now. 
I don’t dare wait any longer. Mr. Cortland 
— ” He swung, around toward me— “Mr. 
Cortland, I see it is now time to give you one 
more bit of knowledge. I have a story to 
tell you, about myself and you. Surely you 
must have realized by now that you are in- 
volved in this thing far beyond any power 
of mine to accept or dismiss.” 

I NODDED. I did know that. I thought 
briefly of the things that had happened 
to me in Rio, of the affinity I had sensed 
without understanding between that stain on 
the hearthstone and the — the creature which 
had scorched my hand in Rio and the deaths 
that had come after. Would they stop now 
— in Rio? Would they begin again, nearer 
home? There had to be some connection — 
coincidence just doesn’t stretch that far. 
But all I could do was wait. 

“This is my story,” De Kalb said. “Our 
story, Mr. Cortland. Yours and mine. Dr. 
Essen’s — perhaps Colonel Murray’s too. I 
don’t know. I wish I did. Well, I’ll get on 
with it.” Fie sighed heavily. “After I had 
experienced the Record many times,” he 
said, “I began to realize that there was in it 
reference to a certain spot on the earth’s 
surface that had a rather mystifying im- 
portance. 

“I was unable to grasp why. The place 
was localized by latitude, longitude, various 
methods of cross-reference. It took me a 
long while to work it out in terms of our 
own world and era and decimal system. 
But finally I did it. 

“I went there.” He paused, regarding me 
gravely. “Have you ever been in the Laur- 
entians, Mr. Cortland? Do you know the 
wildness of tho.se mountains? So near here 
by air, and so far off in another world, once 
you arrive and the sound of your motor 
ceases. You imagine then that you can hear 
the silences of the arctic wastes, which are 
all that lie beyond that band of northern 
forests. 

“Well, I hired men. I sank a shaft. They 
thought I was simply a prospector with more 
money and fewer brains than most. Fortun- 
ately they didn’t know my real reason — that 
the spot I was hunting had turned out to 
be underground. You get some curious 
superstitions up there in the wilds — perhaps 


27 


THE TIME AXIS 


not curious. In many ways they’re wise 
men. But my spot, in this era at least, had to 
be dug for. 

“My instruments showed mie a disturbance 
toward which the shaft was angled. And 
eventually we oame to the source of that dis- 
turbance. We found it. We hollowed a cav- 
ern around it. After that I dismissed the 
men and settled down to study the thing I 
had found.” He laughed abruptly. 

“It was twenty feet of nothing, Mr. Cort- 
land. An oval of disturbance, egg-shaped, 
cloudy to tJie eye. I could walk through it. 
But inside that oval space and matter wnre 
walled off from our own space and matter 
by a barrier that was, I know now, supra- 
dimensional. A man may move from light 
to dark, encountering no barrier — yet the 
difference is manifest. There were tremen- 
dous differences here. 

“Also there was something inside. I was 
convinced of that long before I got my first 
glimpse of it. I tried many things. It was 
finally under a bombardment of UV that I 
saw the first shadowy shape inside that noth- 
ingness. I increased the power, I decreased 
it, I played with the vernier like a violinist 
on a Stradivarius. 

“I chased that elusive mystery up and 
down through the light bands like a cat on 
a mouse’s trail. And at last, quite clearly, I 
saw — ” He broke off, grinning at me. 

“No, I shall not tell you yet what I saw,” 
he said. “You wouldn’t believe me. The 
moment has now come, Mr. Cortland, when 
I must give you a Kttle lesson on the nature 
of time.” He held up the orange, revolving 
it slowly between his fingers. 

“A sphere,” he said, “revolving on an 
axis. Call it the earth.” 

He put out his other hand and took up 
from the fruit bowl a silver knife with a leaf- 
shaped blade a little broader than the orange. 
With great deliberation he slid the edge 
through the rind. 


CHAPTER V 
The Beaih Carriers 


W HAT happened then came totally 
without warning. In one moment 
I sat comfortably in my chair watching De 
Kalb draw the knife-blade through the 


orange. In the next — 

A blinding nova of pure energy exploded 
outward from a nexus in the center of my 
body. 

The room ceased to be. De Kalb and Dr. 
Essen w«-e unrealities far off at the periph- 
ery of that exploding nova. Vitality ran like 
fire through every nerve and vein, like an 
adrenaline charge inconceivably magnified. 
There was nothing in the world for one 
timeless moment but the bursting glow of 
that experience for which I have no name. 

The first thing I saw when the room came 
back into focus around me was the blood 
running from De Kalb’s hand. 

It meant nothing to me, in that first in- 
stant. Blood is the natural noncomitant of 
death and I knew that somewhere not far 
away a man had died a moment before. 
Then my senses came back and I sat up 
abruptly, staring at DeKalb’s face. 

The color had drained out of it. He was 
looking at his cut hand with a blank unsee- 
ing gaze. There was a fittle blood on the 
silver knife. It was nothing. He had only 
cut himself slightly because of — 

Because of — 

Our eyes met. I think the knowledge 
came simultaneously into our minds in that 
meeting of glances. He had felt it too. The 
explosion of white energy had burst outward 
in his nerve centers in the same moment it 
burst in mine. Neither of us spoke. It wasn’t 
necessary. 

After what seemed a long while I looked 
at Dr. Essen. That bright steel glance of 
hers met mine squarely but there was only 
bewilderment in it. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

The sound of her voice seemed to release 
us both from our speechlessness. 

“You don’t know?” De Kalb swung 
around to look at her. “No, evidently you 
don’t. But Mr. Cortland and I — Cortland, 
how often have you — ” He groped for 
words. 

“Since the first of the deaths in Rio,” I 
said flatly. “You?” 

“Since the first of them here. And ever 
since, though very faintly, when they hap- 
pened in Rio.” 

“What are you talking about?” Dr. Essen 
demanded.. 

Heavfly, speaking with deliberation, De 
, Kalb told her. 

“For myself,” he finished, glancing at 
me, “it began when I first opened the Rec- 


STARTLING STORIES 


28 

ord.” He paused, looked at his hand with 
some surprise and, laying down orange and 
knife, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket 
and wrapped it around the bleeding cut. “I 
didn’t feel that at all,” he said, almost to 
himself. 

And then, to me, “I opened the Record. I 
told you that — something — went by me very 
fast and vanished at the spot where that 
nekronic stain later came into existence.” 
He looked at me soberly, his eyes narrowed. 
“Mr. Cortland,” he said, “can you tell me 
that you did not experience any feeling of 
recognition when you first saw that stain on 
the hearth?” 

I got up so suddenly that my chair almost 
tipped over. Violently I said, “De Kalb, 
somewhere a man has just died ! Something 
killed him. Something is making you and 
me accessories to murder ! We’ve got to put 
a stop to it! This isn’t an academic discus- 
sion — it’s murder! We — ” 

“Sit down, Mr. Cortland, sit down.” De 
Kalb’s voice was tired. “I know quite well 
it’s murder. We must and will discover the 
truth about it. But not by shouting at one 
another. The truth lies in that box on the 
table. It lies somewhere very far in the 
future. 

“Also, the truth is a being that roams our 
world, murdering at will. I released it, Mr. 
Cortland. Unwittingly, but I released it. 
That was a Pandora box I opened. Trouble 
and death came out of it. We can only pray 
that there is hope in the bottom of it, as there 
was in Pandora’s box.” 

“Look,” I said. “Tell me how I can help 
and I’ll do it. But let’s not have any more 
generalities. I’m too close to these deaths. 
I think I’m in personal danger. Maybe you 
are too. What can we do?” 

“We are not in personal danger from the 
killer. From the law — perhaps — if this con- 
nection from which we suffer were to become 
known. What can we do ? I wish I could tell 
you. I’m sure of this much — that thing 
which came from the box, leaving the stain 
of nekronic matter like a footprint behind it, 
is a living and dangerous creature. It 
touched me as it went by. I think by that 
touch I’ve become — well, remotely akin to 
it. Were you touched too?” 

I told him. 

“Very well,” he said. “We are in danger. 
Has it occurred to you yet that where it 
touched the hearthstone, the nekron took 
root?” 


F or a moment I didn’t see what he 
meant. Then the implication hit me and 
I went cold and empty inside. De Kalb, see- 
ing the look on my face, laughed shortly. 

“I see it has. Very well. So far I haven’t 
detected any sign of nekronic infection in 
myself. I assume you haven’t either. But 
that proves nothing.” 

“Have you seen the creature?” I asked. 
He hesitated. “I can’t be sure. I think 
I have. Will you tell me exactly what hap- 
pened to you, please ? Every detail, even the 
irrelevant. ” 

And when I had finished, he exchanged 
troubled glances with Dr. Letta Essen. “Di- 
rective intelligence, then,” she said. 

“The way it moved,” De Kalb murmured. 
“That’s highly significant. And the impos- 
sibility of getting a firm grip on the creature. 
So — Letta, do you agree?” 

“Frictional burns?” she asked. “But it 
didn’t move fast enough to cause those. That 
is — not spatially.” 

“Not in space, no,” De Kalb said. “But 
in time ? Limited, of course. A few seconds’ 
leeway would be enough if you consider the 
energy expended and the tremendous veloci- 
ties involved. It looks like a shadow — it 
seems to have mass without weight — ^and it 
has high velocity without spatial motion. 

“And Mr. Cortland’s tightening his grip 
on the creature seemed to push it away. 
Time-movement, then ! It vibrates — it has 
an oscillating period of existence, certainly 
limited within a range of a few seconds. A 
tuning-fork vibrates in space. Why not vi- 
bration through time — with an extremely 
narrow range? 

“No wonder you couldn’t hold the crea- 
ture ! Could you hold a metal rod vibrating 
that rapidly? You would get frictional burns 
on your hands — since your own weight 
would prevent you from partaking of its mo- 
tion. The being’s existence must be, to a 
limited degree, extra-temporal. 

“Consequently, I suppose any weapon 
used against it would have to be keyed to 
its own temporal periodicity. That is, if we 
had a pistol oscillating in time, we might 
be able to shoot the creature. But the hand 
that squeezed the trigger might have to be 
oscillating too.” 

“Trembling like a leaf,” I said. “I know 
mine would be.” 

He brushed that away. “How intelligent 
is this killer? Is ego Involved, or merely 
vampirism ? If the creature read your 


THE TIME AXIS 


mind — ” He grimaced. “No. No! The 
missing factor is what the nekron itself is 
and its special qualities. And we don’t know 
that. We probably never will until we go to 
the Face of Ea.” 

I sighed. I sat down. I’d had too many 
jolts in the past half hour to feel very sure of 
myself. 

“So we travel in time,” I said wearily 
“Mr. De Kalb — you’re crazy.” 

He had enough energy left to chuckle 
rather wanly. 

“You’ll think me even crazier, sir, when 
I tell you what it was I saw down there 
under the mountain, in the cavern. But I 
must finish my demonstration before you’ll 
be able to understand.” 

“Get on with it, then.” 

H e took up orange and knife again. 

He fitted the blade into the cut and 
finished the job of bisecting the fruit a little 
above its equator. The severed top half lay 
upon the blade as on a narrow plate. Below 
it he held the other half of the orange in 
place, so that it still maintained its unbroken 
sphere. 

“Consider this blade Flatland,” he said. 
“A world of two dimensions, intersecting the 
three-dimensional sphere. Now if I revolve 
the lower half of the orange, you will please 
imagine that the upper half revolves with it. 
One fruit — you see? The axis remains im- 
movable in relation to the plane in Flatland 
it intersects. 

“Now. I cut this lower half again, straight 
through. The same axis intersects the same 
point on this Flatland. In other words, the 
spatial axis remains stable. You understand 
so far ?” 

“No,” I said. He grinned, tossed knife 
and fruit back into the bowl. 


29 

“It takes thinking,” he said. “Let me go 
on. Now time is also a sphere. Time re- 
volves. And time has an axis — a single 
stable extension of a temporal point, drawn 
through past and future alike, intersecting 
them all, as that knife-blade touched the 
orange everywhere in the Flatland dimen- 
sion. And that, Mr. Cortland, is what makes 
travel in time theoretically valid. 

“The theory of time-travel usually ignores 
space. The traveler steps into some semi- 
magical machine, presses a button and 
emerges a thousand years in the future — but 
on earth!” He snorted. “In a thousand 
years, or a thousand days, or in one day, or 
one minute, this planet along with the whole 
solar system would have traveled far beyond 
its position at the moment the traveler en- 
tered his machine. 

“But there is one point from which he 
could enter the machine, enter time itself and 
be sure always of emerging on earth. For 
each planet, I think, there is one single point. 
The spot in the Laurentians where I saw — 
what I saw — was that point for our planet. 
It is the spot at which the axis of the time- 
sphere intersects our own three-dimensional 
world. If it were possible to follow the line 
of that particular axis you would move 
through time. 

“Well, I believe there is movement but 
along still another dimension, beyond this 
theoretical fourth which is time— or super- 
time. Call it a fifth. This much I’m sure of 
— if you could stay in the time axis indefi- 
nitely the ultra-time drift would carry you 
into another era, through era beyond era, 
wherever other ages intersect the time axis.” 
He shook his head. 

“I admit I don’t understand it too clearly. 
It’s a science beyond ours. However, I think 

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STARTLING STORIES 


30 

I can explain the presence of the Record 
box now. I believe the people of the Face 
sent it back in a direction parallel to the 
time-axis — ^which, remember, intersects the 
same area in space always, at any given mo- 
ment. They sent it very far back, millennia 
into our past — as you say, like people tossing 
a message in a bottle into the stream of 
time. 

“Look.” He held up his hand, thumb 
and forefinger touching at the tips. “Two 
times — my finger and thumb. But they 
touch at one point only. There you can 
cross. From the time of the Face to, let us 
say, some thousands of years B.C. This is 
vague again, and it is something I don’t un- 
derstand. 

“The extension is along still another di- 
mension, possibly the ultra-sphere, this fig- 
urative fifth. But it’s logical to suppose 
there would be such a limitation. There is 
in space. You can step spatially only into 
areas spatially adjoining yours. And in 
time — well, it may apply there too.” 

“All right,” I said. “Okay up to now. 
ril accept it. Now let’s have the kicker. 
What was it you saw in your cave?” 

E KALB leaned back in his chair, re- 
garding me with a grin. 

“I saw you, Mr. Cortland.” 

I gaped at him. 

His grin broadened. 

“Yes, I saw you, lying asleep on the floor 
of the — the egg. I saw myself there too, 
asleep. I saw Dr. Essen. And lastly I saw 
Colonel Harrison Murray.” 

He looked at me with obscure triumph, his 
grin very wide. 

“You’re crazy,” I said bluntly. 

“You’re thinking you’ve never been in a 
cavern under a Laurentian mountain, I sup- 
pose. Very likely. Nor has Dr. Essen. Nor, 
I imagine, Murray. But you zvill he, my 
friend. So will we all.” The grin faded. 
Now the deep voice was graver. “And we 
are all changed, there in the egg. You under- 
stand that? 

“We are older, by a little, not temporally, 
but in experience. You can see that on our 
faces. We have all passed through strange 
experiences — good, bad, awe-inspiring, per- 
haps. And the men look — tired, older. But 
Dr. Essen looks strangely younger.” He 
shrugged heavily. “I don’t attempt to ex- 
plain it. I can only report what I saw.” He 
smiled at me. 


“Well, so much for that. Don’t look so 
stunned, Mr. Cortland ! I assure you it was 
yourself. Which means that you will go 
with us when we take our great leap into 
the future, into the world of the Face. I 
believe we will all stand together in the living 
flesh before that great Face we have seen 
only in our minds, today. 

“Believe? I know it. Those people lying 
asleep in the time-axis, with instruments on 
the floor around them to regulate their slum- 
bers, will go forward in time — have gone 
forward. And they will return in the end to 
here and now. 

“They will go as the box went. From the 
here and now, forward through the time- 
axis to the world of the Face. But there is 
no backward flow along that axis. No one 
can risk meeting himself in his own past, 
even if such a thing were possible. So when 
we return, we must come as the box did, 
along a path which is parallel to the axis, to 
that continuous point in time which may be 
millennia B.C., where the box originally 
emerged. 

“In effect, one goes forward with the flow 
along the time axis and back around the cir- 
cumference of the sphere which is time. And 
there we enter the time-axis chamber again, 
and are carried forward along the flow to 
our own present time.” He smiled. 

“Do you see what that means? It means 
that one day those four in the Laurentian 
cavern will waken. And as they wake, as 
they step out, three men and a woman will 
enter the chamber and begin their journey 
into time!” 

f GAVE my head a quick shake. Images 
were whirling in it like sparks from a 
Fourth-of-July pinwheel. None of them 
made sense to me, or perhaps only one. But 
that one was definite. 

“Oh no they won’t,” I said. 

“Why not?” 

“I will quote you a vulgarism,” I said 
meticulously. “There may be flies on some 
of you guys, but there ain’t no flies on me. 
I’m not going. I know when I’m well off. 
Jerry Cortland is staying right here with 
both feet firm upon his own temporal axis. 
I will write you the best story you ever saw 
about yourself, Mr. De Kalb, but I won’t 
climb on any merry-go-rounds with you. Is 
that clear ?” ’ 

He chuckled deeply. 

“But you did, Mr. Cortland — you did!” 



THE HME axis 31 


CHAPTER VI 
The Military Mind 


C OLONEL HARRISON MURRAY, 
at sixty, still had a fine military figure 
and was proud of it. You could see him re- 
member to throw his shoulders back and 
pull in his waist about once every ten min- 
utes. Then age and the subject at hand 
would gradually divert him and he would 
sag slowly— until he remembered again. 

He had a discontented drooping mouth, 
a face all flat slab-shaped planes and an in- 
congruously high thin voice that got higher 
when he was angry, which was most of the 
time. He waS' angry now. 

“A man can’t help it if he was bom a 
fool, De Kalb,” he said. “But luckily we’re 
not all fools. You’re going to drop this idi- 
otic sideline of yours, whatever it is, and 
go back to work on our current job. You 
agreed to assist the War Department — ” 
He gave me a quick, wary glance. “You 
agreed to do- a certain- job.” 

“I’ve done it,” De Kalb told him. “I’ve 
set up the Bureau and laid out all the plans. 
Oh, it’s no secret — we’re not the only ones 
who’ve been experimenting .dong this line, 
ni be willing to bet Mr. Cortland knows 
more than you think about this top-secret 
Bureau of ours. How about that?” 

He was looking at me. I said, “Well, I’ve 
heard rumors on the grapevine. Hypnotism, 
isn’t it?” 

Murray swore softly. De Kalb chuckled. 
“Subliminal hypnosis,” he said. “It doesn’t 
matter. Colonel. The important secrets are 
the specialized techniques that have been 
worked out and they’re still under cover — I 
hope. The Bureau is operating efficiently 
now. I’ve set up the plan. Now there are 
competent researchers doing quite as much 
as I could do. If I stayed on now it would 
simply be as a figurehead. My usefulness 
was over when I explained my theories to 
the technicians and psychologists who were 
able to apply them. ” 

“Allow me to decide that,” Murray said 
angrily and there was a pause. 

Quietly, from her chair by the window, 
Dr. Essen spoke. “Ira, perhaps if Colonel 
Murray saw the Record — ” 

“Of course,” De Kalb said. “No use 


squabbling any further. Cortland, will you 
do the honors this time?” 

I opened the cupboard door. I took down 
the wrapped bundle which was the box. I 
set it on the table between De Kalb and 
Murray. The Colonel looked suspiciously at 
it. 

"If this is some childish joke — ” he began. 

“I assure you, sir, it’s no joke. It is some- 
thing the like of which you’ve never seen be- 
fore, but there’s nothing humorous about it. 
I think when you’ve looked into this — this 
package — you’ll have no further objections 
to the problem I’m working on.” 

De Kalb undid the wrappings. The stained 
and battered box, blue-white, imperishable 
as the time-currents upon which it had 
drifted so long, lay there before us, the uni- 
verse and the destiny of man locked inside 
it. 

E KALB’S fingers moved upon its 
surface. Tliere was a faint, distant 
ringing as if the hinges moved to a sound 
of music and the box unfolded like a flower. 

I didn’t watch. I knew I’d get nothing 
further from it now until my mind had rested 
a little. I looked at the ceiling instead, 
where the lights from the unfolded leaves 
and facets of the Record moved in intricate 
patterns on the white plaster. Even that 
was hypnotic. 

It was very quiet in the room. The si- 
lence of the end of the world seemed to flow 
out of the box in waves, engulfing all sound 
except for De Kalb’s heavy breathing and 
the quick, rasping breath that came and went 
as Murray sat motionless, staring at the 
flicker of lights that had been lit at the 
world’s end and sent back to us along the 
circumference of time. 

I found that I was holding myself tense 
in that silence. I was waiting — waiting for 
the nova to burst again inside me, perhaps. 
Waiting for another killing, perhaps some- 
where in my sight this time, perhaps some- 
one in this room. And I was waiting for 
one thing more — the first spreading cold- 
ness that might hint to me that my own flesh, 
like the stone of the studio hearth, had given 
root to the nekron. 

The box closed. The lights vanished from 
the ceiling. 

Murray very slowly sat upright in his 
chair. . . 

De Kalb leaned back heavily, his curiou^y 
duU eyes full on Murray’s face. 



32 STARTLING STORIES 


“And that’s the whole story,” he said. 

It had taken over an hour of quick, in- 
cisive questions and painstaking answers to 
present Murray with a complete picture of 
the situation in which he himself played so 
curious a part. We all watched his face, 
searching, I think, for some sign of the tre- 
mendous intellectual and emotional experi- 
ence through which everyone must go who 
opened that box. 

Nothing showed. It was the stranger be- 
cause I knew Murray was almost a hysteric 
psychologically. Perhaps he’d learned to 
control himself when he had to. Certainly 
he showed nothing of emotion as he shot his 
cold, watchful questions at De Kalb. 

“And you recognized me,” he said now, 
narrowing his eyes at De Kalb. “I was in 
that— that underground room?” 

“You were.” 

Murray regarded him quietly, his mouth 
pulled downward in a curve of determina- 
tion and anger. 

“De Kalb,” he said, “you tell a good 
story. But you’re a grasshopper. You al- 
ways have been. You lose interest in every 
project as soon as you think you’ve solved it. 
Now listen to me a minute. The indoctrina- 
tion project you were working on with me 
is not yet fully solved. I know you think 
so. But it isn’t. I see exactly what’s hap- 
pened. Hypnosis as an indoctrination meth- 
od has led you off onto this wild scheme. 
You intend to use hypnosis on whatever 
guineapigs you can enlist and — ” 

“It isn’t true, Murray. It isn’t true.” De 
Kalb was not even indignant, only weary. 
“You saw the Record. You know.” 

“All right,” Murray admitted after a mo- 
ment., “I saw the Record. Very well. Sup- 
pose you can go forward in time. Suppose 
you step out, back in the here and now, ten 
seconds after you step in. You say no time is 
lost. But what energy you’ll lose, De Kalb ! 
You’ll be a different man, older, tired, full of 
experiences. Disinterested, maybe, in my 
project. I can’t let you do it. I’ll have to in- 
sist you finish that first and then do what 
you like on this Record deal of yours.” 

“It can’t be done, Murray,” De Kalb said. 
“You can’t get around it that way. I saw 
you in the time-chamber, remember. You 
did go.” 

Murray put up an impatient hand. “Is 
this telephone connected with the exchange? 
Thanks. I can’t argue with you, De Kalb. I 
have a job to do.” 


We all sat quiet, watching him as he put 
a number through. He got his departmental 
headquarters. He got the man he wanted. 

“Murray speaking,” he said briskly. “I’m 
at De Kalb’s in Connecticut. You know the 
place? I’m leaving immediately in my plane. 
I want you to check me in as soon as I get 
there, probably around three. I’m bringing 
a man named Cortland with me, newspaper 
fellow — ^you know his work? Good? Now 
Listen, this is important.” Murray took a 
deep breath and regarded me coldly over the 
telephone. Very distinctly he said into it, 
“Cortland is responsible for that series of 
murders he reported from Brazil. I’m bring- 
ing him in for questioning.” 


CHAPTER VII 
Out of Control 


I DIDN’T like the way he flew his plane. 

His hands kept jiggling with the con- 
trols, his feet kept adjusting and readjusting 
the tail-flaps so that the ship was in constant, 
unnecessary side motion in the air. Murray 
was nervous. 

I looked down at the trees, the tilted 
mountain slopes, the roads shining in the 
sun, with little glittering black dots sliding 
along it that were cars. 

“You know you can’t get away with this, 
Murray,” I said. It was, I think, almost the 
first thing I had said to him since we took 
off half an hour ago. After all, there had 
been little to say. The situation was out of 
all our hands, as Murray had meant it to be, 
from the moment he spoke into the tele- 
phone. 

“I have got away with it, Cortland,” he 
said, not looking at me. 

“De Kalb has connections as powerful as 
yours,” I told him. “Besides, I think I can 
prove I’m not responsible for those deaths.” 

“I think you are, Cortland. If there’s any 
truth in what De Kalb was saying, I believe 
you’re a carrier.” 

“But you’re not doing this because you 
think I’m guilty. You’re doing it to stop 
De Kalb.” 

“Certainly.” He snapped his lips shut. 
I shrugged. That, of course, was obvious. 

We flew on in silence. Murray was un- 
easy, perhaps from the experience of the 


THE TIME AXIS 


Record. I think now that he had entirely 
shut his mind to that. I think he was deny- 
ing it had ever happened. But his hands 
and feet still jittered on the controls until I 
itched to take the plane away from him and 
fly it myself. 

It was a nice little ship, a six-passenger 
job that could have flown alone, almost, as 
any good plane can do in smooth air if the 
pilot will only let it. I would probably have 
said just then, if you’d asked me, that I was 
in plenty of trouble. My troubles hadn’t 
started. They were about to. 

The first intimation was the sound Mur- 
ray made — a sort of deep, startled, incredu- 
lous grunt. I started to turn toward him. 
And then — time stopped. 

I had a confused awareness that something 
was moving through the ship, something 
dark and frighteningly swift. But this time 
there was a difference. The thing I had first 
encountered in a Rio alley had returned. The 
first pulse of that nova of blinding brilliance 
burst outward from the core and center of 
my body. But it did not rise to its climactic 
explosion of pure violence. The energy sud- 
denly was shut off at the source. The plane 
was empty of that monstrous intruder. 

Beside me Murray hunched over tire con- 
trols, slowly bending forward. I could not 
see his face. That instant of relief passed 
in a flashing time-beat. 

A gain the pulse throbbed through me. 

And again it was shut off. There was 
something terribly wrong with gravity. The 
earth stood upright in a blurred line that 
bisected the sky and was slowly, slowly top- 
pling over from left to right. The weight 
of Murray’s body, slumped heavily forward, 
was throwing the ship out of control. 

I couldn’t move — ^riot while those erratic 
jumping shocks kept pounding at me. 

But I had to move. I had to get hold of 
the controls. And then, as I put forth all my 
strength, the explosion channeled into my 
brain— different, somehow incomplete. I 
could feel a swiftly-fading ebb-tide draining 
into the empty void. 

Then it was gone altogether. 

Another part of my mind must have taken 
over then. And it must have been efficient. 
Myself, I seemed to be floating somewhere 
in a troubled void with the image of Mur- 
ray’s lolling head and limp arms. Murray — 
(k^. Dead ? He must be dead. I knew that 
ndcronic shock too well. 


33 

In the imndless void where my awareness 
floated I knew that I was a bad spot tem- 
porally. Jerry Cortland was in a bad spot. 
Murray’s headquarters must be expecting 
him in already with a murder suspect in tow. 
I was the murder suspect and murder had 
been done again. And Murray and I had 
been alone in mid-air when it happened. 

The efficient part of my mind knew what 
to do. I left it at that. I had no recollection 
whatever of fighting the plane out of its 
power dive or of turning in a long high cir- 
cle as I got lost altitude back. But that must 
have happened. Time and distance meant 
nothing to the half of my mind that floated 
but the other half very efficiently flew the 
plane. 

* * * * ♦ 

“All right now?” De Kalb’s voice in- 
quired. 

I sat up shakily. The room was swimming 
around me but it was a familiar room. I 
could see Dr. Essen bending above a couch 
and I could see polished boots and a shoulder 
with something shiny on it. I must have 
brought Murray back. Murray — dead? 

“It was — it was the nekron,” I said 
thickly. 

“I know, I know,” De Kalb said. “You 
told us. Don’t you remember ?” 

“I don’t remember anything except Mur- 
ray.” 

“I ckin’t think we can save him,” De Kalb 
said in a flat voice. 

“Then he’s alive?” 

“Just.” 

We both looked automatically toward the 
couch, where Dr. Essen lifted a worried face. 

“The adrenalin’s helping,” she said, “but 
there’s no real improvement. He’ll sink 
again as soon as the effect wears off.” 

“Can’t we get him to a hospital?” I asked. 

“I don’t think medical treatment will help 
him,” De Kalb said. “Dr. Essen has a med- 
ical degree, you know. She’s already done 
everything the hospitals have tried on the 
other victims. 

“That creature strikes a place that scalpels 
and oxygen and adrenaline can’t reach. I 
don’t know what or where, but neither do 
the doctors.” He moved his shoulders im- 
patiently. “This is the first time the killer 
hasn’t finished its job. You interrupted it, 
you know — somehow. Do you know how?” 

“It was intermittent,” I said hesitantly. 


STARTLING STORIES 


34 

“It kept going away and coming back.” I 
explained in as much detail as I could. It 
wasn’t easy. 

“The plane was moving fast, eh?” De 
Kalb murmured. "So. Always before the 
victims have been practically immobilized. 
That might explain part of it. If the ne- 
kronic creature is vibrating through time 
it might need a fixed locus in space. And 
the plane was moving very fast in space, 
That could explain why the attack was in- 
complete — but complete enough, after all.” 

I nodded. “This is going to be pretty 
hard to explain to Murray’s headquarters,” 
I said. 

“There’s been one call already,” De Kalb 
told me. “I didn’t say anything. I had to 
think.” He struck his fist into his palm im- 
patiently and exclaimed : “I don’t understand 
it’! I saw Murray with us in that cave! I 
saw him!” 

“Has it occurred to you, Ira,” Dr. Essen’s 
gentle voice interrupted, “that what you may 
have seen in the time-chamber was Colonel 
Murray’s dead body, not Colonel Murray 
asleep?” 

E TURNED to stare at her. 

“It seems clear to me,” she went on, 
“that Mr. Cortland is a sort of catalyst in 
our affairs. From the moment he entered 
them things have speeded up rather fright- 
eningly. I suggest it’s time to make a defi- 
nite forward move. What do you think, 
Ira?” 

De Kalb frowned a little. “How’s Mur- 
ray?” he asked. 

“He’s dying,” she said flatly. “I know 
of only one thing that could possibly post- 
pone his death.” 

“The neo-hypnosis, you mean,” De Kalb 
said. “Well, yes — if it works. We’ve used 
it on sleeping subjects, of course, but with 
a man who is as far gone as Murray, I don’t 
know.” 

“We can try,” Dr. Essen said. “It’s a 
chance. I don’t think he’d ever have entered 
the time-axis of his own volition but this 
way we can take him along. Things are 
working out, Ira, very surprisingly.” 

“Can we keep him alive until we reach the 
shaft?” De Kalb asked. 

“I think so. I can’t promise but — ” 

“We can’t save him,” De Kalb said. “The 
People of the Face — ^maybe. And after all, 
Murray did go with us. I saw him. Mr. 
Cortland, do vou think that olane would 


carry the four of us as far as the Lauren- 
tians?” 

“Obviously, Mr. De Kalb,” I said with 
somewhat hysterical irony, “obviously, if I 
guess what you have in mind, it did!"' 

* H< * ^ * 

You could see the shaft-mouth from a 
long way up, dark above the paler slide of 
dug earth, and shadowed by the thick green 
of the Canadian mountains. 

It was easier to spot from the air than to 
reach on foot. 

We left the plane in a little clearing at the 
bottom of the slope. It seemed wildly reck- 
less, but what else could we do? And we 
carried Murray’s body up the mountain with 
- us, De Kalb and I, while Dr. Essen, carry- 
ing a square case about two feet through, 
kept a watchful eye on the unconscious man. 
Once she had to administer adrenalin to 
Murray. 

I still hadn’t come to any decision. I could 
simply have walked away but that would 
have meant shutting the last door of escape 
behind me. I told myself that I’d think of 
some other way before the final decision had 
to be made. Meanwhile I went with the 
others. 

“It wouldn’t be as though I were run- 
ning away from punishment,” I told De 
Kalb wryly as we paused to catch our breath 
on the lip of the shaft. Tree-tops swayed 
and murmured below us, and the mountains 
were warm in the late, slanting sunlight of 
a summer evening. 

“If your theories are right I won’t be 
escaping from anything. The moment I step 
into your time-trap my alter ego steps out 
and goes on down the mountain to take his 
medicine. All I can say is I hope he has a 
fine alibi ready.” 

“He will have — you will have,” De Kalb 
said. “We’ll have all time at our disposal 
to think one up in. Remember what our 
real danger is, Cortland — the nekron. An 
infection of the mind. An infection of the 
earth itself and perhaps an infection in our 
own flesh, yours and mine. 

“What it is that I turned loose on the 
world when I opened that box I don’t yet 
know but I expect to know when I go down 
that mountain again — ten minutes from now, 
a million years from now. Both.” He shook 
his head. 

“Let’s firet on with it.” he said. 



THE TIME AXIS 


CHAPTER VIII 
Fantastic Journey 


I DON’T think I ever really meant to 
embark on that fantastic journey along 
the time axis. I helped carry Colonel Mur- 
ray’s body down the dusty shaft but it was 
a nightmare I walked through, not a real 
experience. I knew at the bottom of the 
tunnel I’d wake up in my hotel in Rio. 

At the foot of the shaft was a hollowed 
out room. Our flash-beams moved search- 
ingly across the rough walls. We carried 
Murray into the cave and laid him down 
gently on a spot the scientist indicated. Dr. 
Essen immediately became busy with her 
patient. Presently she looked up and nodded 
reassuringly. 

"There’s time,” she said. 

But De Kalb waved his arm, sending light 
sliding erratically up the rock, and said, 
“Time — there is time here! This space and 
this air form one immutable axis upon which 
all the past and the future turn like a wheel.” 

It was bombastic but it was impressive 
too. Dr. Essen and I were silent, trying to 
grasp that imponderable concept, trying per- 
haps to catch the sound of that vast turning. 
But De Kalb had moved into action. 

"Now,” he said, kneeling beside the black 
suitcase Dr. Essen had set down. “Now you 
shall see. Murray is all right for a while? 
Then — ” He snapped open the case and 
laid down its four sides so that the compact 
instruments v,rithin stood up alone, light 
catching in their steel surfaces. 

He squatted down and began to unpack 
them, to set up from anrong part of the 
shining things a curious little structure like 
a tree of glass and blinking lights, fitting 
tiny jointed rods together, screwing bulbs 
like infinitesimal soap-bubbles into invisible 
sockets. 

"Now, Letta,” he said presently, squinting 
up at her in the dusty flash-beams, "your 
turn.” 

"Ira — ” She hesitated, shrugged uneasily. 
"Very well.” 

I held the light for them while they 
worked. 

After what seemed a long while De Kalb 
grunted and sat back on his heels. There 
was a thin, very high singing noise and the 


35 

tiny tree began to move. I let my flashlight 
sink upon my knee. De Kalb reached over 
and switched it off. Dr. Essen’s beam 
blinked out with a soft click. It was dark 
except for the slowly quickening spin of the 
tree, the flicker of its infinitesimal lights. 

Very gradually it seemed to me that a 
gray brightness was beginning to dawn 
around us, almost as if the whirling tree 
threw off light that was tangible and accu- 
mulated in the dusty air, hanging there upon 
every mote of dust, spinning a web that 
grew and grew. 

It was gathering in an egg-shaped oval 
that nearly filled the chamber. 

B y THE gray luminous dimness I could 
see Dr. Essen with her hands on a 
flat thick sheet of metal which she held 
across her knees. There were raised bars of 
wire across its upper surface and she seemed 
almost to be playing it like a musical instru- 
ment as her fingers moved over the bars. 
There was no sound but the light slowly, 
very slov/ly, broadened around us. 

"In theory,” Dr. Essen said, “this would 
have worked years ago. But in practice, 
only this very special type of space provides 
the conditions we need. I published some 
papers in Forty-one on special atomic struc- 
tures and the maintenance of artificial ma- 
trix. But the displacement due to temporal 
movement made practical application impos- 
sible. Only at the time-axis would that dis- 
placement theory become invalid. 

"I am creating a rigid framework of mat- 
ter now. Call it a matrix, except that the 
vibratory period is automatically adaptive, so 
that it’s self-perpetuating and can’t be 
harmed. Really, the practical application 
would be something like this — if you were 
driving a car and saw another car about to 
collide with you, your own vehicle could 
automatically adjust its structure and be- 
come intangible. So — ” 

“It isn’t necessary for Mr. Cortland to 
understand this,” De Kalb said, his voice 
suddenly almost gay. “Eager seeker after 
tnrth though he may be. There is still much 
I don’t understand. We go into terra incog- 
nita — but I think we will come to the Face 
in the end. 

"Somehow, against apparent logic, we 
have managed to follow the rules of the 
game. Somehow events have arranged them- 
selves — in an unlikely fashion — so that all 
four of us are entering the time axis where 


STARTLING STORIES 


36 ^ 

all four of us lie asleep — intangible, impalpa- 
ble and invisible except under ultraviolet. 

“Murray may die. But since the nekronic 
creature attacked through time, as I believe, 
then perhaps sympathetic medicine may cure 
the Colonel. Some poisons kill but cure in 
larger doses. I don’t know. Perhaps the 
long catalepsy outside time will enable Mur- 
ray’s wound to heal — wherever it is. I sus- 
pect that the people of the Face may have 
foreseen all this. Are you getting drowsy, 
Mr. Cortland?” 

I was. The softly whirling tree, the sweet, 
thin, monotonous sound of its turning were 
very effective hypnotics though I hadn’t real- 
ized it fully till now. I made a sudden con- 
vulsive effort to rise. On the very verge of 
*Ehe plunge I realized that my decision had 
been made for me. 

I FELT my nerve going. I didn’t want to 
embark on this crazy endeavor at all. A 
suicide must know this last instant of violent 
revulsion the moment after he has pulled the 
trigger or swallowed the poison. I put out 
every ounce of energy I had — and moved 
with infinite sluggishness, perhaps a quarter 
of an inch from where I sat. 

De Kalb’s voice said, “No, no. The ma- 
trix has formed.” 

My head was ringing. 

The gray light was like a web that sealed 
my eyes. 

Through it, dimly, remotely, far off in 
space and time, I thought I could see motion 
stirring that was not our m<5tion — and per- 
haps was — 

And perhaps was ourselves, at the other 
end of the closing temporal circle, rising 
from sleep after adventures a million years 
in the future, a million years in the past. 
But that motion was wholly theirs. I could 
not stir. 

Sealed in sleep, sealed in time, I felt my 
consciousness sinking down like a candle- 
flame, like a sinking fountain, down and 
down to the levels below awareness. 

The next thing I saw, I told myself out 
of that infinite drowsiness, would be the Face 
of Ea looking out over the red twilight of 
the world’s end. And then the flame went 
out, the fountain sank back upon the dark 
wellspring of its origin far l^elow the surfaces 
of the mind. 

“And now we wait,” De Kalb’s voice said, 
ghostly, infinities away. “Now we wait— a 
million years.” 


CHAPTER IX 
Strange Awakening 


T here was a rhythmic ebb and flow of 
waves on some murmurous shore. It 
must, I thought, be part of my dream. . . 
Dream ? 

I couldn’t remember. The murmur was a 
voice, but the things it said seemed to slip by 
over the surface of my mind without waking 
any ripples of comprehension. Sight ? I 
could see nothing. There was movement 
somewhere, but meaningless movement. 
Feeling? Perhaps a mild warmth, no more. 
Only the voice, very low — unless, after all, 
it were some musical instrument. 

But it spoke in English. 

Had I been capable of surprise that should 
have surprised me. But I was not. I was 
utterly passive. I let sensations come and 
go in the darkness that lay just beyond me, 
on the other side of that wall of the silenced 
senses. What world? What time? What 
people ? It didn’t matter yet. 

“ — of waiting here so long,” the voice said 
on a minor chord of sadness so intensely 
sweet that my throat seemed to tighten in 
response. Then it changed. It pleased — and 
I knew even in my stupor that no one of 
flesh and blood could possibly deny whatever 
that strange sweet voice demanded. 

“So I may go now. Lord? Oh, please, 
please let me go !” The English was curious, 
at once archaic and evolved. “An hour’s re- 
freshment in the Swan Garden,” the plain- 
tive voice urged, “and I shan’t droop so.” 
Then a sigh, musical with a deliberate lilt. 

“My hair — look at it. Lord ! The sparkles 
all gone, all gone. Poor sparkles ! But only 
an hour in the Swan Gardens and I’ll serve 
you again. May I go. Lord? May I go?” 

No one could have denied her. I lay there 
enthralled by the sheer music of that voice. 
It was like the shock of icy water in the face 
to hear a man’s brisk voice reply. 

“Save your tongue, save your tongue. 
And don’t flatter me with the name of Lord. 
This is business.” 

“But so many hours already — I’ll die, I 
know I'll die ! You can’t be so cruel — and 
I’ll call you Lord anyhow. Why not? You 
are my Lord now, since you have the power 
to let me live or — ” Heart-rending sorrow 
breathed in the sigh she gave. 


THE TIME AXIS 37 


"My poor hair,” she said. "The stars are 
quite gone out of it now. Oh, how hideous 
I am ! The sight of me when he wakes will 
be too dreadful, Lord! Let me take one 
little hour in the Swan Garden and — ” 

"Be quiet. I want to think.” 

There was silence for a moment or two. 
Then the sweet voice murmured something 
in a totally unfamiliar language, sullenly. 
The man said, "You know the rules, don’t 
you ?” 

"Yes, Lord. I’m sorry.” 

"No more impudence, then. I know im- 
pudence, even when I can’t understand it. 
Pay attention to me now. I’m going to put 
an end to this session. When this man wakes 
bring him — ” 

“To the Swan. Garden? Oh, Lord Payn- 
ter, now? I will love you forever!” 

"It isn’t necessary,” the crisp voice said. 
"Just bring him to the right station. The 
City’s the nearest connection since this is 
confidential so far. Do you understand?” 

“The City? Walk through the City? I’ll 
die before I’ve gone a dozen steps. My poor 
slippers^ — oh, Lord Paynter, why not direct 
tran,smission?” 

“You’ll have new slippers if you need 
them. I don’t want to remind you again all 
this is secret work. We don’t want anybody 
tuning in accidentally on our wave-length. 
The transmitter in the City has the right 
wave-band, so you can bring him — ” 

H IS voice trailed off. The girl’s tones 
interrupted, dying away in the dis- 
tance in a faint, infinitely pitiable murmur- 
ing quaver. There was a pause, then the 
sound of light feet returning on some hard 
surface and a rush of laughter like a spurt of 
bright fountaining water. 

“Old fool,” she said, and laughed again. 


“If you think I care — ” The words changed 
and were again incomprehensible, in some 
language I had never heard even approxi- 
mated before. 

Then movement came, and light — a brief, 
racking vertigo wrenched my brain around, 

I opened my eyes and looked up into the 
face of the girl, and logic was perfectly use- 
less after that. Later I understood why, 
knew what she was and why men’s hearts 
moved at the sight and sound of her. But 
then it was enough to see that flawless face, 
the lovely curve of her lips, the eyes that 
shifted from one hue to another, the hya- 
cinth hair where the last stars pulsed and 
died. 

She was bending over me, the tips of her 
scented ringlets brushing my shoulder. Her 
voice was inhumanly sweet, and so soft with 
warmth and reassurance that all my bewil- 
derment melted away. It didn’t matter 
where I was or what had happened, so long 
as that lovely voice and that lovely face were 
near — which was exactly the effect she had 
meant to make and exactly the reason why 
she was there. 

I knew’ her face. 

At that moment I was not even trying to 
reason things out. My tongue felt thick and 
my mind was lightly furred all over with the 
effects of — what ? Sleep ? ' Some drug they 
might have given me while I lay there help- 
less? I didn't know. I accepted all that was 
happening with a mindless acquiescence. 
Later I would wonder. Now I only stared 
up at the lovely, familiar face and listened 
to the lovely, remotely familiar voice. 

“You’re all right now,” she was murmur- 
ing, her changing eyes on mine. “Quite all 
right. Don’t be worried. Do you feel strong 
enough yet to sit up? I have something I 

[Turn page] 




38 STARIUNG STORIES 


want you to see.” 

I got an elbow under me and levered my- 
self slowly up, the girl helping. I looked 
around. 

I was dressed in unfamiliar dark garments 
and I was sitting on a low couch apparently 
composed of a solid block of some hard yet 
resilient substance. We were alone together 
in a smallish room whose walls looked like 
the couch, hard yet faintly translucent, just 
a little yielding to the touch. Everything 
had the same color, a soft graylike mist or — 
I thought dimly — sleep itself, the color of 
sleep. 

1116 girl was the color of — sunlight, per- 
haps. Her smooth skin had an apricot glow 
and her gown was of thin, thin silky stuff, 
I)ale yellow, like layers of veiling that floated 
when she moved. There were still a few 
fading sparkles in her curls. Her eyes just 
now were a clear bright blue that darkened 
as I met them to something close to violet. 

“Look,” she said. “Over there, behind 
you, on the wall.” 

I TURNED on the couch and looked. 

The far wall had a circular opening in it. 
Beyond the opening I could see rough rock 
walls, a grayish glow of light, four figures 
lying motionless on the dusty floor. For a 
moment it meant nothing to me. My mind 
was still dim with sleep. Then — 

“The cave!” I said suddenly. And of 
course, it was. That little glittering tree 
which was the last thing ! had seen before 
sleep overtook me stood there, motionless 
now. Beside it lay De Kalb. 

Dr. Essen slumbered beyond him, the flat 
metal sheet with the bars of wire still lean- 
ing against her knee. She lay on her side, 
the tired, gentle face half hidden by her bent 
arm, the gray curls on the dusty floor. There 
was a rather unexpected gracefulness to her 
angular body as she lay there, utterly re- 
laxed in a sleep that was already — how many 
thousands of years long ? 

My eyes lingered for an instant on her 
face, moved on to Murray’s motionless body, 
moved back again to .search the woman’s 
half-hidden features for a disturbing some- 
thing I could not quite identify. It was — it 
was— 

The figure beyond Murray’s caught my 
attention suddenly and for an instant my 
mind went blank with amazement. The puz- 
zle of Dr. Essen’s face vanished in this 
larger surprise, the incredible identity of that 


fourth {person asleep in the dusty cove. I 
gaped, speechless and without thought. 

Up to that instant I suppose I had been 
assuming simply that all of us were being 
awakened, slowly and with difficulty, and 
that I had awakened first. But the fourth 
person asleep on the cavern floor was Jeremy 
Cortland. Jerry Cortland — me. 

I got to my feet unsteadily, finding after 
a moment or two that I was in fairly good 
control of all my faculties. The giri twit- 
tered in concern. 

“I’m all right,” I said. “But I’m still 
there I” 

Then I paused. “That means the others 
may have wakened too. De Kalb — Dr. Es- 
sen — have they — ?” 

She hesitated. “Only you are awake,” she 
said at last. 

I walked on slightly uncertain feet across 
the floor and peered into the cave. There 
was no cave. 

I knew it when I was close to the wall. 
I could see the light reflected slightly on the 
texture of the surface. The cave was only 
another reflection, television perhaps, or 
something more otecure, but with startlingly 
convincing depth and clarity. 

And if that scene was separated from me 
in space it might be distant in time as well — 
I might be seeing a picture of something 
hours or weeks old. It was an unpleasant 
moment, that. So long as I thought myself 
near to that last familiar link with my own 
world I had maintained a certain confidence 
that broke abruptly now. I looked around 
a little wildly at the girl. 

“I’m not in that cave now — they’re not 
there now either, are they? This was just a 
picture that was taken before any of us woke. 
Did you wake first, then?” It was no good, 

I knew that. I rubbed my hand across my • 
face and said, “Sorry. What did happen?” 


CHAPTER X 
Museum 


S HE smiled dazzlingly. And for one flash 
of an instant I knew who she was. I 
knew why my eyes had been drawn back in 
puzzled surprise to Letta Essen lying with 
curious unexpected grace on the cavern floor. 
I met this girl’s shining gaze and for that 


THE TIME AXIS 


one instant knew I was looking straight into 
the keen gray eyes of Letta Essen. 

The moment of certainty passed in a flash. 
The girl’s eyes shifted from gray to luminous 
blue, the long lashes fell and the unmistak- 
able identity of a woman I knew vanished. 
But the likeness remained. The familiarity 
remained. This girl was Letta Essen. 

My mind, groping for similes, seized at 
first on the theory that in some fantastic 
way Dr. Essen herself stood here before 
me masked by some science of beauty be- 
yond the sciences I knew, in a shell of youth 
and loveliness through which only her keen 
gaze showed. 

It was all a trick, I thought — this is Letta 
Essen who did wake before me, somehow 
leaving her simulacrum there in the cave, 
as I had. This is Letta Essen in some 
amazingly lovely disguise for purposes of 
her own and she’ll speak in a moment and 
confess — 

But it couldn’t have been a disguise. This 
soft young loveliness was no mask. It was 
the girl herself. And her features were the 
features Letta Essen might have had twenty 
years ago if she had lived a wholly different 
life, a life as dedicated to beauty as Dr. 
Essen’s had been to science. 

Then I caught a bewildering gray flash 
again and I knew it was Letta Essen — no 
disguise, no variation on the features such 
as kinship or remote descent might account 
for. The mind is individual and unique. 
There are no duplications of the personality 
I knew I was looking into the eyes of Letta 
Essen herself, no matter how impossible it 

“Dr. Essen?’’ I said softly. "Dr. Essen?’’ 

She laughed. "You’re still dreaming,” 
she said. “Do you feel better now Lord 
Paynter — the old fool — is waiting for us. 
We should hurry.” 

I only gaped at her. What could I say? 
If she wasn’t ready to explain how could 
I force her to speak? And yet I knezv. 

“I’m here to welcome you, of course,” 
she said lightly, speaking exactly as if I , 
were some stranger to whom she must be 
polite, but who was of no real interest to 
her. “I was trained for work like this — ^to 
make people feel at ease. All this is a great 
mystery but — well. Lord Paynter will have 
to explain. I’m only an entertainer. But a 
very good one. Oh, very good. 

"Lord Paynter sent for me when he knew 
you would awaken. He thought his own 


ugly face might put you into such a mood 
you’d never answer any questions.” She 
giggled. "At least, I hope he thought so.” 
She paused, regarding me with exactly the 
cool keen speculative stare I had so often 
met when the woman before me was Letta 
Essen. Then she shrugged. 

"He’ll tell you as much as you ought to 
know, I suppose. It’s all much too mystify- 
ing for me.” Her glance shifted to the 
cavern where the sleepers lay motionless and 
I thought there w^s bewilderment in her 
eyes as she looked uneasily from face to 
sleeping face. Again she shrugged. 

"Well, we should go. If we’re late Lord 
Paynter will have me beaten.” She seemed 
very unconcerned about the prospect. "And 
please don’t ask questions,” she added, “for 
I’m not allowed to an.swer. Even if I knew 
the answers. Even if I cared.” 

I was watching her with such urgent at- 
tention that my eyes ached with the effort 
of trying to be more than eyes, trying to 
pierce through her unconcern and see into 
the depths of the mind which I was certain 
was Letta Essen’s. She smiled carelessly at 
me and turned away. 

“Come along,” she said. 

There was nothing for me to do but obey. 
Clearly I was expected to play the same 
game her actions indicated. With some 
irony I said, “You can tell me your name, 
can’t you?” 

“I am Topaz — this week,” she said. 
“Next week, perhaps — something else. But 
you may think of me until then as Topaz.” 

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “And what year 
are you Topaz in? What country? Where 
am I, anyhow?” 

“The Lord Paynter will tell you that. I 
don’t care to be beaten.” 

“But you speak English. I can’t be very 
far from home.” 

"Oh, everyone who matters knows 
English. It’s the court language of the 
Mother Planet, you see. The whole galaxy 
operates on an English basic. There has' to 
be some common language. I — oh dear, I 
will be beaten! Come along.” 

She turned away, tugging me by the arm. 
There was a button on the opposite wall and 
the way she walked beside me toward it, 
the way she reached to touch the button, fol- 
lowed so definite a pattern of graceful mo- 
tion that it seemed like dancing. 

In the wall a shutter widened. Tc^az 
turned. "This is the City,” she told me. 


STABnJNG STORIES 


40 

1 HAD seen the beginnings of such places 
in my own time. In the second fcvel 
under Chicago, by the canal — ^at Hoover 
Dam — in the great bridges and the subways 
of Manhattan. Those had been the rudi- 
ments, ugly, crude, harsh. This was a city 
of machines, a city of n»etal with blood of 
invisible energy. 

Ugly? No. But frightening — yes. 

Topaz led me across a strip of pavement 
to a cushioned car like a big cup and we 
sat down in it and the car started, whether 
or not on wheels I can’t say. It moved in 
three dimensions, rising sharply in the air 
.sometimes to avoid collisions, to thread its 
intricate pattern through that singing city. 

The sound was, perhaps, the strangest 
part. I kept watching and listening with the 
automatic attention of the reporter, sense- 
lessly making mental notes for articles I 
would never write. A single note hummed 
through the city, clear and loud as a trumpet, 
sliding up and down the scale. Not music, 
for there was no pattern, but much like a 
clarinet, varied every changing second. 

I asked Topaz about it. She gave me a 
glance from Letta Essen’s eyes and said, 
“Oh, that’s to make the noise bearable. 
You can’t get rid of the noise, you know, 
without sacrificing the effect but you can 
transform it into harmonious sound that 
does convey the proper things. There’s — 
what do you call it — frequency modulation. 
I think that’s it. 

“All the noises of the City every second 
add up to one key vibration, a non-harmonic, 
and that’s simply augmented by a machine 
so the audible result isn’t so unpleasant. 
The only alternative would be to blanket it 
completely and that would mean sacrificing 
a good part of the total effect, you know.” 

“I don’t know,” I said. “What do you 
mean, effect?” 

She turned in the car to Ick^ at me. 
Suddenly she dimpled. 

“No, I see you don’t understand. Well, 
I won’t explain. I’ll save it for a surprise.” 

I didn’t argue with her. I was too busy 
staring around me at the City. I can’t 
describe it. I won’t try and I don’t need to. 
You’ve read about such places, maybe pic- 
tured them for yourself. Precision, perfect 
functionalism, all one mighty machine made 
up of machines. 

There were no humans, no life, except for 
us under the dome erf steel sky. The light 
was gray, dear, oddly compact, and; through 


that steel-colored air die city trumpeted' its 
wailing crjr of a world that vras not ray 
world, a time that was yet to come. 

Where was the red twilight of the world’s 
end? Where was the Face of Ea, from 
which the call for help had come? 

Or did that world lie somewhere just otrf- 
side the dty ? Somethii^ had gone strange- 
ly wrong in the time-axis — ^that much was 
certain. If I let myself think about it Fd 
probably start gibbering. Things had been 
taken out of my control and all I could do 
was ride along. 

We drew up before a towering steel and 
plastic building. Topaz jumped briskly out 
of the car, took my hand confidently and led 
me into the low door before us. We had 
stepped straight into an elevator jq^arently, 
for a panel sighed shut bdrind us and I felt 
the famiHar pressure underfoot and the dis- 
placed air that meaiKS a rapid rising up a 
shaft. 

The panel opened. We stepped out into a 
small room similar to the cme m which I had 
awakened. 

“Now,” Topaz said with relief. “We’re 
here. You were very good and didn’t ask 
too many questions, so before we go I’ll show 
you something.” 

She touched another button in the wall, 
and a plate of metal slid downward out of 
sight. There was thick glass behind it. 
Topaz fingered the button again and the 
glass slid down in turn. A gust of sweet- 
smelling air blew in upon us. I caught my 
breath and leaned forward to stare. 

We were very high up in the city but we 
were looking out over a blossoming country- 
side, bright in the season of late spring. I 
saw meadows deep in grass and ydlow 
flowers, far below. Streams winked in the 
bright, clear sunlight, here and there fruit- 
trees were in btossom. Bird-song rose and 
fell in the sunshine. 

“This, of course,” Topaz said, “is the 
world we live in. There’s only one museum.” 

“Museum?” I echoed almost absently, 
“What museum?” 

“The City. There’s only one. All ma- 
chines and robots. Isn’t it horrible? They 
built like that, you know, back in barbarous 
times. We keep it in operation to show 
what it was like. That’s why they can’t 
blanket the noises altogether — it would spoil 
the effect. But ik) one lives here. Onty 
students come sc«netimes. Our world is 
out there.” 


THE TIME AXIS 


“But where do people live?” I asked. 
"Not in — well, villages, ctMumunities ?” 

“Oh no. Not any more. Not since the 
dark ages. We have transmis^n now, you 
see, so we don’t need to live huddled up 
together. ” 

“ T ransmissicwi ? ” 

“This is a transmitter.” She waved at 
the room behind us. “That other place, 
where you woke, was a receiver.” 

“Receiver of what? Transmitter of 
what?” I felt like Alice talking to the 
Caterpillar. 

“Of matter, naturally. Much easier than 
walking.” She pressed the stud again and 
the glass and metal slid up to shut out that 
glowing springtime world. “Now,” she said, 
“We’ll go — ^wherever it is we’re going. I 
don’t know. Lord Paynter — ” 

“I know — the old fool.” 

Top&z giggled. “Lord Paynter’s orders 
are already on record. In a moment we’ll 
see.” She did something with the buttons 
(Ml the wall. “Here we go,” she said. 

Vertigo spun through my mind The wail- 
ing of that ancient, wonderful, monstrous 
City died away. 


CHAPTER XI 
Thirty Second Interlude 


I T WAS a little like going down fast in 
an elevator. I didn’t lose consciousness 
but the physical sensations of transmission 
were so bewildering and so disorienting that 
I might as well have been unconscious for 
all the details I could give — then or later — 
about what happens between transmitter and 
receiver. All I know is that for a while the 
walls shimmered around me and gravity 
seemed to let go abruptly inside my body, 
so that I was briefly very dizzy. 

Then, without any perceptiWe spatial 
change at all, the walls suddenly steadied 
and were not translucent pale gray any 
more, but hard dull steel, with the rivets 
showing where plates overlapjied and here 
and there a stresfle of ru!5t. I was in a some- 
what smaller room than before. And I was 
alcMie. 

“Topaz?” I said tentatively, looking 
around for her. “Topaz?” And then, more 
loudly, “Dr. Essen — where are you?” 


41 

No answer, except for the echo of my 
voice from those dull rusty walls. 

This time it was harder to take. I don’t 
know why. Maybe things like that are 
cumulative. It was the second time I’d taken 
a jump into the unknown, piloted by some- 
body who was supposed to know the angles, 
and come out at the far end alone and in the 
wrong place. 

I looked at the walls and fought down 
sheer panic at the possibility that this time 
I had really gone a.stray in the time-dimen- 
sion and wakened here in the same rocan 
from which I’d set out in the City museum, 
a room now so aged that the wall surfaces 
had worn away and the exposed steel cor- 
roded and only I remained aKve and im- 
prisoned in a dead world. 

It was a bad moment. 

I had to do something to disprove the 
idea. Obviously the one possible action was 
to get out of there. I took a long step to- 
ward the nearest wall — 

And found myself sta^ering. Gravity 
had gone wrong again. I weighed too much. 
My knees were trying to buckle, as if the 
one step had put nearly double my weight 
upon them. I braced my legs and made it 
to the wall in wide, plodding steps, com- 
pensating in every muscle for that extra- 
ordinary downward pull. 

The moment my hand touched the wall 
there was a noise of badly oiled hinges and 
a door slid back in the steel. 

Now let me get this straight. 

Everything that happened happened ex- 
tremely fast. It was only later that I realized 
it, because I had no sense of being hurried. 
But in the next thirty seconds the most 
important thing that was to occur in that 
world, so far as I was concerned, took place 
with great speed and precision. 

Through the opening came a cool dusty 
light and the sound of buzzing, soft and 
insistent. I gjuessed at anything and every- 
thing. 

I stood on the threshold of an enormous 
room. It was braced, tremendously braced, 
with ru.sted and pitted girders so heavy they 
made me think of Kamak and the tremen- 
dous architecture of the Egyptians. In an 
intricate series of webs and meshes metal 
girders ran through the great rexm, cat- 
walks, but perhaps not for human beings, 
since some were level while others tilted 
dizzily and on a few one would have had to 
W3&C »^ide-down. I noticed, though, that 


STARTLING STOMES 


42 

while most of the catwalks were rusted those 
on which a man could walk without slipping 
off were scuffed shiny. 

There was a series of broad high windows 
all around the room. Through them I could 
see a city. 

Topaz had said there were no cities in her 
civilization except for the Museum. Well, 
perhaps there weren’t. Perhaps I had 
plunged unknowingly into time again, and 
looked upon a city like that Museum, no 
longer preserved in dead perfection. This 
city was living and very old. An obsolete 
metropolis, perhaps a nekropolis in the 
sense De Kalb had used the term. Every- 
where was decay, rust, broken buildings, 
dim lights. 

The sky was black. But it was day out- 
side. a strange, pallid day lit by bands of 
thin light that lay like a ^realis across the 
dark heavens. Far off, bright but not blind- 
ing, a double sun turned in the blackness. 

UT there were pieople on the streets. 
My confidence came back a little at the 
sight of them, until I realized that something 
curious was taking place all through the city 
as I watched a strange, phantom-like flitting 
of figures — men flashing into sight and out 
again like apparitions in folk-lore. I stared, 
bewildered, for an instant, before I realized 
the answer. 

Perhaps in. a city of the future like this 
one I had expected vehicles or moving ways 
of endless belts. Now I saw that at intervals 
along the street were discs of dull metal set 
in the pavement. A man would step on one 
— and vanish. Another man would suddenly 
appear on another, step off and hurry toward 
a third disc. 

It was matter-transmissiort, applied to the 
thoroughly practical use of quick transporta- 
tion. 

I saw other things in that one quick look 
about the city. I won’t detail them. The 
fact (^f the city itself is all that was important 
about that phase of my thirty seconds’ ex- 
perience there. 

There were two other important things. 
One was the activity going on in the enor- 
mous room itself. And the third was waiting 
almost at my elbow. But I’m taking these 
in the reverse order of their urgency. ■ 

Something was happening on the far side 
of the room. It wasn’t easy to see, because 
of the distance and because a number of men 
in dark close-fitting garments clustered 


around it. I thought it might be an autopsy. 

There was a table as high as an op)erating 
table and a man or a body lay stretched out 
on it. Above the table hung a web of thin, 
shining, tenuous matter that might have been 
lights or wires. It made me think, for no 
clear reason, of a complex chart of the neural 
system. 

At the lower edge the bright lines ap- 
peared to connect with the object on the 
table. At the top they vanished into a maze 
of ceiling connections I couldn’t follow. 
Some of the wires, or lights,, were brilliantly 
colored, others were silvery. Light and color 
flowed along them, coalesced at intersec- 
tions, glowed dazzlingly and flowed on along 
diverse channels downward. 

That was the thing of secondary impor- 
tance which I saw there. The thing of 
primary im]X)rtance stood about six feet 
away from me, waiting. 

Now this is the difficult part. I must get 
it as clear as I can. 

tall man stood facing me. He had been 
standing there when the door opened. 
Obviously he expected me. He wore tight- 
fitting dark clothes like the others. He was 
well-made, even handsome, with the emo- 
tionless face of a Greek statue or a Buddha. 

He was Ira De Kalb. 

I had a moment of horrible internal ver- 
tigo. as if the liottom had dropped wholly 
out of my ren.son. It couldn’t be happening. 
For this wa.s De Kalb and it wasn’t, exactly 
as Topaz had been Dr. Essen — and not Dr. 
Essen. In thi.s case, at any rate, there was 
.almost no physical difference. This man 
before me was the man I had last seen asleep 
in the cavern of the time-axis, no younger, 
no older, not changed at all except for one 
small thing. 

’Phe Ira De Kalb I had known possessed 
strange veiled eyes, filmed like a bird’s, 
grayed wfith light blue dullness. But this De 
Kalb, who regarded me with unrecognizing 
coldness, as if he had never seen me before 
in his life, looked out of airiously changed 
eyes. 

IS eyes were made of metal. 

It was living metal. _ like burnished 
steel with depth behind it, yet not real steel 
— some alloy unknown to me, some bright 
unstable thing like quicksilver. I could see 
my own face reflected in the eyes, very small 
and vivid, and as my reflection moved, the 
eyes moved too. 




THE TIME AXIS 43 


I took a deep breath and opened my 
mouth to speak his name. 

But I did not make a sound. There wasn’t 
time. He had been standing there with an 
immobility that was not human. An image 
of metal would stand like that, not seeming 
to breathe, no tiniest random motion stirring 
it. And I had an instant’s uncanny recollec- 
tion that the De Kalb I knew had moved 
with curious clumsiness, like an automaton. 

Then the metal eyes moved. 

No, 1 n:>oved. 

It was a fall, in a way. But no fall I could 
accurately describe. It was motion of ab- 
normal motor impulses, fantastic simply l)e- 
cause they were without precedent. One 
walks, actually, in a succession of forward- 
falling movements, the legs automatically 
swinging forward to save one from collapse 
toward the center of gravity. 

This was reaction to a sort of warped 
gravitational pull that drew me toward De 
Kalb. It was the opposite of parajy.si.s — a 
new gravitation had appeared and I was 
jailing toward it. It was like rushing down 
a kteep slope, unable to halt oneself. 

His strange, smooth face was expression- 
less but the metal eyes moved, watching me, 
reflecting my twin images that grew larger 
and larger as I jell upon him down a ver- 
tiginous abyss. The eyes came toward me 
with an effect of terrible hypnosis, probing 
into mine, stabbing through the reflection of 
my own face, my own eyes, and pinning the 
brain in my .skull — probbing into my mind 
and the little chamber behind the mind, 
where the ego lives. 

Then he was looking out — through my 
own eyes ! Deep in my brain the metal gaze 
crouched, looking watchfully outw'ard, seeing 
what I saw. 

A telepathic rapport? I couldn’t explain 
it. All I knew was the fact. De Kalb was a 
spy in my brain now. 

I turned around. I went back toward the 
door into the transmission room. I closed 
the door. I was alone there. But the metal 
eyes looked at the room as I looked at it. 
I had no control over my motions while I 
saw my own hand rise and finger the wall. 
Btrt when the room began to shimmer and 
the disorientation of matter-transmission 
shivered through my body I knew I had my 
muscles and my will back again. I was free 
to move as I liked. I was free to think and 
speak — 

But not about wdiat had just lappened. 


It may have been something like post- 
hypnotic command, to give it a label. That’s 
familiar and easy to explain. But it wasn’t 
easy for me. Rememl^r, I’d looked into 
De Kalb’s quicksilver eyes. 

All this happ)ened in something under 
thirty seconds. I’ve given you, of course, 
conclusions and afterthoughts that came to 
me much later, when I had time to think 
over what I’d seen and correlate it. But I 
woke in the rusted room, I looked out into a 
city on a planet outside our solar system, I 
saw something like an autopsy in a vast 
laboratory braced as if to witbstand unearth- 
ly pressures, I met the gaze of Ira De Kalb 
and then the thing had happ>ened between 
us — happ>ened. And I return^ to the trans- 
mitter. 

The room vibrated and vanished. 


CHAPTER XII 
The Suvn Garden 


OPAZ squealed with sheer delight. 
“Come on out!” she cried. “It's the 
Swan Garden ! What are you waiting for 
anyho'v? I'll take back all I ever said about 
Lord Paynter. Oh, do look, isn't it wonder- 
ful here?” 

Silently I .stepped after her through the 
door. 

So little actual time had elapsed that I 
don't think she really missed me. .Some- 
thing had reac hed out through the matter- 
transmitter and intercepted one of us and let 
the other go on. But Topaz must have 
rushed out of the door the moment it opened 
and been too overcome with pleasure at find- 
ing herself just here to realize I was lagging 
behind. 

And I — had I really been for a round-trip 
through a galaxy? Had I dreamed it? Was 
this whole interlude a dream while my own 
body slept in the time-axis, waiting for the 
world’s end? In preparation for that sleep 
I had begun to learn how to ignore time as 
a factor in our plans. 

In this world, waking or sleeping, evident- 
ly I must learn to ignore space. Distance 
meant nothing here with the matter-trans- 
mitters functioning as they did. You could 
live on Centaurus and get your breakfast 
rofls fresh from,a bakery in Cliicago. 



l4 


STARTLING STORIES 


Yoo could drop in on a friend on Sirius 
to borrow a book, simply because it might 
be easier than to walk around the comer 
for one. And in the annihilation of space, 
time too seemed to undergo a certain 
annihilation. Just as, in ignoring time, you 
could as a corollary overstep space. 

I had overstepped reason too. I had conne 
into a world where nothing made sense to 
me, where the people who had been my com- 
panions moved behind masks, stirred by 
motives that were gibberish. I had over- 
stepped both space and time just now, and 
so compactly that the girl who called herself 
Topaz never missed me. 

I was still too dazed to argue. I could 
coirtrol my own motions again but my mind 
had suffered too much bewilderment to 
function very well. I followed Topaz 
dumbly, staring about me at the remarkable 
landscape of the Swan Garden — knowing in 
some indescribable way that inside my mind 
other eyes stared too, impassive metal eyes 
that watched my thoughts as they watched 
the things around me. 

Topaz spun around twice in sheer delight, 
her sun-colored veils flying. Then she ran 
her hands through her hair, dislodging a last 
sparkle or two, and, smiling at me over her 
shoulder, beckoned and hurried ahead 
through what seemed to be a wall of white 
lace. 

A gentle breeze stirred it, shivering the 
folds together and I saw that we were fol- 
lowing a narrow path through a grove of 
head-high growths like palmetto, except that 
the leaves and flowers were white, and 
shaped like enormous snow-flakes, each a 
perfect crystalline pattern and every one dif- 
ferent from every other. 

Topaz ran her hands lovingly through the 
flowers as we went down the path. Under- 
foot the ground had the locflt and feel of 
soft down. After a mcanent we entered a 
cleared space with what seemed at first 
glance a stream of water tracing an arabes- 
que path among huge, humped boulders. 
The breeze freshened, the lacy curtains 
shimmered and thinned before it and I saw 
a gossamer vista beyond of unreal gardens 
where fantastic beauties lay in wait. 

“Sit down,” Topaz said. "I don’t know 
why Lord Paynter sent us here but I suppose 
he’ll join us when he’s ready. Isn’t it lovely? 
Now I can have my hair starred again. Oh, 
do sit down ! Right there, on that — ” 

“That rock?” I asked. 


“No, that chair. Look.” She sank lightly 
on one of the boulders and it curved and 
moulded itself beneath her to a couch the 
shape of her body, fitting every bend of her 
limbs perfectly. It look^ very comfortable. 

I GRINNED at her and sat down myself, 
feeling thick, resilient softness yielding 
as I sank. Deliberately I turned off my mind. 
Events wholly beyond my control had 
catapulted me into this world and this com- 
plex situation. 

The only way I could keep sane was to 
ride along without a struggle until the time 
for action came. I thought I’d know it when 
it did. There was no use asking questions of 
this lovely deliberately feather-brained little 
creature beside me. Perhaps, when Paynter 
came — 

“Have some fruit,” Topaz invited, gestur- 
ing at the stream flowing past. 

I looked again. It wasn’t a stream. Call 
it a tube, of flowing crystal, hanging un- 
supported in the air about three feet off the 
ground. It came out of the downy earth at 
the edge of the trees, twisted intricately 
around the boulders and dived into the 
ground again farther on. From where I sat 
I could touch one arch of it without stretch- 

Drifting past my hand came a globe, large 
as an orange, of a pale green translucence. 
Topaz put out her hand, waited for it to 
drift nearer, plucked it out of the stream. 
She gave it to me, cool and dripping from 
its bath. 

"Eat it if you like,” she said. “Choose 
what you will. I’m going away for awhile. 
Oh, I’ve been so good to you! Hours and 
hours I sat waiting for them to wake you up 
and my hair grew all dull and horrible.” 
She sh^k her curls and her face brightened. 

“I’ll show you,” she promised. “I’ll use 
the star -powder all over. It takes some plan- 
ning, though. The stars in my hair will have 
to be a different color and my face — a half- 
mask, do you think? A dark mask, set off 
by the stars? Or jet stars along my arms, 
like gloves.” 

Somewhere among the trees in the direc- 
tion from which we had just come a gong 
sounded one clear note. Topaz looked up. 
“Oh,” she said. “Lord Paynter.” 

I felt in the center of my mind a sudden 
quickening of interest. The spy who had 
usurped my senses was prqiaring for action. 
But — what action ? 


45 


HIE TIME AXIS 


I bit into the pale green fruit Topaz had 
handed me. It wasn’t yet my problem. If 
anything, it was De Kalb’s. I’d have to 
lomw more before I could do a thing. I 
sank my teeth into crisp moist sw^ness 
that tingled on the tcmgue like something 
mildly alcoholic. It was delicious. 

“Lord Paynter — welcwne to the Swan 
Garden!’’ Topaz rose from her rock and 
swept an elaborate and probaWy ironic 
curtsey, her bright veils billowing. “Hideous 
as I am,” she added, “and it’s all your fault, 
I make you welcome. I — 

“Be quiet. Topaz,” a familiar voice said. 

I got to my feet and turned to face him as 
he came out from among the crystal-shaped 
flowers that hid the path. It was the voice 
I had heard in my dim awakening moments 
here. But it seemed to me now even more 
familiar than that. A thin cold flat voice, a 
little too high. Oh yes, I had heard it be- 
fore — perhaps a thousand years before. 

He was a tall man, big, thick, heavy, with 
a fine military bearing. He had a down- 
drooping mouth between the flat slabs of his 
cheeks, very sharp pale blue eyes — Murray’s 
eyes, Murray’s face, Murray’s voice. It was 
Colonel Harrison Murray. 

It wasn’t surprising, of course. So far as 
I knew, there might be other people in this 
world and there might not be. Maybe it 
was simply a dream, peopled by the three 
who still lay asleep beside me in the time- 
axiS; dreaming as I dreamed. Only, they 
didn’t suspect, apparently. They thought all 
this was real. Only I knew tlmt the whole 
thing might explode like a bubble at any 
moment. . . . 

Murray, if this were ncA a dream, had been 
healed in the long bath of time, for he looked 
perfectly restored now. That injury to the 
hidden place of the mind or the soul or the 
body, where the nekronic being struck, was 
something that could mend then, with time. 
With time — 

Were we in the world of the Face? Had 
we wakened ? Did we still sleep ? How could 
I possibly find myself now in a world where 
Dr. Essen moved behind a mask of beauty 
by the name of Topaz and Murray, un- 
changed in any particular, called himself 
Paynter with a perfectly straight face, and 
De Kalb — De Kalb — what about De Kalb? 

I do not know. 

Blankly I looked around. No one had 
spoken. But the voice was in my brain. De 


Kalb? It came again. 

/ do not know but I intend to learn. Be 
quiet emd we will learn together. 

P AYNTER strode briskly forward, his 
boots ringing on the downy earth. He 
wore what might have been a uniform, tight- 
fitting, dun-colored. He gave me a keen, 
competent glance in which no recognition 
stirred, then nodded. 

“Good day. Hope you’re feeling better. 
All right, men, bring the boxes over here.” 

He stood aside and two men in uniform 
lugged forward a gray box the size of a 
small table. It had metal banding around it 
and a series of sockets akmg the top. They 
set a second and smaller box beside it and 
stood waiting. 

I found myself staring at thorn with far 
more interest than I felt in the boxes. Here 
were the first people I had seen closely, at 
first hand, who didn’t belong in the dream. 
Their presence shook me a little. Perhaps 
it wasn’t a dream then. Perhaps there really 
was a tangible world around us, outside this 
garden. Perhaps I had really awakened out 
of the time-axis. 

I turned to look at Murray — at Paynter — 
who still regarded me keenly as he sat down 
on one of the rubber-foam rocks. I sat down 
again too, watching him with new patience 
now. I could afford to wait. After a moment 
he spoke. 

“Topaz showed you the cave where we 
found you?” 

I nodded. 

“Oh yes, I did everything you ordered. 
Lord Paynter,” Topaz contributed. “I pre- 
tended that nothing — ” 

“Be quiet. Topaz,” Paynter said with 
some irritation. And then to me, “What’s 
your name?” 

“Cortland,” I said, and added ironically, 
“Lord Paynter.” 

“Job Paynter,” he corrected me calmly. 
“Topaz calls everybody Lord — when she 
wants something. Call me Paynter. It isn’t 
customary to use courtesy titles here.” 

“Oh, hut it is,” Topaz said. She was 
kneeling by the stream and flicking bits of 
spray out of it. “Mister and Mistress and 
Lord and — ” 

“Topaz, stop playing and run away for 
awhile.” Paynter was half irritated, half 
indulgent 

“Oh, thank you. Lord Paynter !” She was 
on her feet in an instant, beaming with 


STARTUNG STORIES 


'46 

smiles. “My hair — there’s so much to do! 
Call me when you want me.” She vanished 
among the snow-crystal trees, moving with 
that extraordinary grace that was as natural 
to her as breathing. 

I watched her go, seeing incongruously 
superimposed upon her averted face the 
features of Letta Essen. They were the 
same. I was sure of it. Imagine Letta Essen 
twenty years younger, with the same keen 
brilliance turned to deliberate irresponsi- 
bility, deliberate loveliness, and you would 
get — Topaz. But a Topaz who did not seem 
to know she had a double. 

"Now, Cortland,” Paynter said, putting 
his hands on his knees and regarding me 
narrowly, “we have a lot of talking to do. 
I’ve heard the playback of your conversation 
with Topaz when you first woke. I assume 
you — ah — believe you’re from the first half 
of the twentieth century, right?” 

“You know I was asleep in the cave,” I 
said. “You must have seen me.” 

“I did. We analyzed the tissues and 
clothing of all the sleepers. Low radio- 
activity, so we know the sleep began before 
the atom wars. So that’s all right. It’s time- 
. travel. We can't very well doubt that. But 
\ou’ll have to tell us how the sleepers got 
there and how I came to be with them.” He 
shook his head rather dazedly. 

I glanced around the little snow-veiled 
leaning where we sat. The two soldiers had 
finished their task and left us at a wave from 
— Paynter? Topaz was gone. We were 
quite alone, lying back comfortably on our 
rubber-foam boulders, the stream gurgling 
faintly past us through the rocks and the air. 

“Maybe you can explain things now, 
Murray,” I said. 

He regarded me with a sort of fixed 
watchfulness, alert, waiting. 

“Murray?” he said after a moment when 
I did not speak again. “Murray?” 

“All right — Paynter,” I conceded. “But 
let’s have the explanation. Things are get- 
ting too far ahead of me.” 

"I’ll be glad to explain everything I can 
to you, in a few minutes,” Paynter said, 
gesturing toward the gray boxes. “I don’t 
understand what it is you’re implying, 
though. I almost get the impression that 
you think you know me.” 

“I knew a man named Murray who looked 
exactly like you — if you want to play it this 
way,” I said. “But it looks pretty obvious 
what happened. You and the others woke 


before me. You may have wakened months 
or years sooner. You went out into this 
world, whatever it is — whenever it is — and 
made places for yourselves. Now it seems 
to suit all of you to pretend I’m a poor rela- 
tion you never heard of. That’s what I 
think happened. Maybe you’ve got a better 
story.” 

He exhaled noisily, a heavy sigh that was 
partly of impatience. 

"I think I see what you mean. That 
doubling of images confuses all of us. You 
really don’t know, then?” 

"I really don’t know.” 

“Obviously, I — or my image — was in 
that cavern with yours. There was also a 
woman there. I didn’t recognize her. The 
third man was Belem.” He paused and fixed 
me with that expectant look again. 

"Belem,” I echoed. “Where I come from 
we pronounce it Ira De Kalb.” 

"Belem,” he told me firmly, ignoring the 
feeble levity, “is a Mechandroid. He isn’t 
human. Did you know that?” 


CHAPTER XIII 
Lord Paynter’s Problem 


OT human, I thought, remembering 
those eyes of cool metal. I sent an 
inward thought searching out the mind that 
crowded my own mind in the narrow con- 
fines of ray head. Not human f I got no 
answer, for a moment. Then there was a 
whisper like a distant voice. 

Watch and wait, it told me quietly. 

“I don’t know what a Mechandroid is,” 
I said as calmly as I could. “I don’t seem 
to know much of anything about this place. 
One thing I’d like to get clear — where I’m 
not. Tell me, Paynter — Murray — whoever 
you are, whether you remember anything 
about the Face of Ea.” 

He scowled thoughtfully. I was watching 
but I saw no flicker of recognition. 

“I can have inquiries made,” he offered. 
“It means nothing to me, but we have 
colonies now on so niany worlds — ” 

“Never mind,” I said rather dizzily. 
“Forget it.” Whether he knew or not he 
wasn’t going to give away anything in that 
connection. “All right, one more thing then. 
What century is this?” 



47 


THE TIME AXIS 


He told me. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t 
the time of the world’s end. I was sure of 
that — or as sure as I could be of anything 
just then. Nowhere in the galaxy yrt was 
that red twilight or the towering Face. 
Something had gone wrong during our 
journey. Something had broken it and 
roused us to wakefulness too soon. Perhaps 
millennia too soon. And I was the only one 
of us who remembered at all what mission 
we’d set out upon. 

Remembered? A sudden idea struck me 
and I said quickly, 

“How about this, Paynter — suppose you 
really are Murray with amnesia? You could 
have awakened and forgotten somehow. You 
might — ” 

“That’s impossible,’’ he said finnly, shak- 
ing his head. “I know my complete history. 
I was bom Job Paynter, on Colchan Three, 
of Earth stock, fifty years ago, and I can 
remember a complete life. No intervals 
missing.’’ 

“All right,” I said. “You suggest some- 
thing.” 

“I wish I could. We seem to be at a stale- 
mate. We — ” 

His voice suddenly went thin and dim in 
my ears. I felt my breath rush invrard with 
a shuddering gasp and — ■ 

Out of the past, into the secret recesses of 
my mind burst a familiar soundless roar of 
energy. Paynter and the garden behind him 
were fading, insubstantial shadows. Nothing 
existed for a terrible blinding moment ex- 
cept this bursting light-speed gush of energy 
as — 

As the thing made its kill. 

The next thing I saw was Paynter’s face. 
He was watching me narrowly out of hard 
blue eyes and it seemed to me his cheeks 
were curiously flushed. 

I don’t know how long a time h^d elapsed. 
Obviously it was time enough for a report 
to come through, for he was speaking into 
an instrument on his wrist. I didn't under- 
stand the language he used. I sat there 
limply, too dazed still to move or think, while 
he watched me with that pale stare. 

I struggled to regain my detachment in 
the face of a shock that had left me sweating 
with plain physical fear. Somehow I had lost 
touch with my human companions in the 
long journey but it was clear that there was 
one fellow-traveler whom I had not lost. The 
creature whose track was the nekron— the 
killing thing whose touch was an infection 


of matter itself. 

Paynter lowered his wrist. “Cortland,” 
he said, “one of the men who helped set up 
this machine has been killed just now. 
Burned. It’s something no one seems to 
have seen before — burns of that type, I mean. 
You — ah — ^you seemed affected just now. 
Have you anything to tell me about this?” 

I looked at him dumbly. Then there was 
a stirring in my mind and the metallic gaze 
of the dweller there seemed to glance out 
through mine. 

That was very curious, the cold, watchful 
awareness that was De Kalb said calmly. 
Com-ply with Paynter now. Do as he sug- 
gests. I think I may be starting to under- 
stand. 

I SIGHED heavily. I hoped he was. 

Things were entirely out of my hands 
now. I watched Paynter take a black helmet 
out of the smaller box before him, plug in 
its cord to the larger box, hold the headpiece 
out to me. 

“Here,” he said briskly. “You and I 
could ask one another questions until dooms- 
day and not come nearer any understanding. 
This will put us in a mental report — fast 
and complete.” 

I looked at the thing sceptically, feeling 
dubious. It was all very well for De Kalb 
in my mind to urge compliance. How did 
I know what his real interests were? What 
Paynter’s were? Certainly not the same as 
mine. 

“Let me think this over a minute,” I said 
doubtfully. “I don’t understand — ” 

“The control is set for certain basic prob- 
lems,” Paynter said in an impatient voice. 
“We’ll open our minds to each other, that’s 
all. There’s automatic screening to eliminate 
trivialties but everything centering around 
the basic of time-travel will be revealed in 
three seconds, much more clearly than you 
could possibly convey it in words. In return, 
you’ll understand all you need to know, so 
that you can talk to me intelligently and 
won’t have to stop for questions every third 
word. Put it on, man, pot it on!” 

I lifted the helmet dubiously. For a mo- 
ment I hesitated. Then the memory of the 
dead man so near us flashed vividly through 
my mind and I knew I had no time to lose. 
It might happen again. I was afraid of what 
Paynter might discover — but how could I 
refuse now ? How much had he noticed 
when the killer struck ? Perhaps it would be 


48 STARTUNG STORIES 


better if he knew the whole story. 

The helmet slipped easily on my head 
and seemed to adjust itself automatically. 
Paynter was saying something about pro- 
jection. 

“You had books in your time. In a good 
one there’s projection — you felt the way the 
author wanted you to feel. This is simply a 
further development. You may relive the 
experiences of historical persons, if the 
screening works out that way. I’ll get cer- 
tain knowledge from you, you from me — and 
we draw on the projection library as a sup- 
plement. a concordance, if necessary.” 

His fingers were busy adjusting controls. 
I had time enough to think, “This is the 
forerunner of the Record, of course. One of 
the steps toward something more complex.” 

Then a bar of spinning light sprang up 
from the larger box, whirling so rapidly that 
atoms of light seemed to spiral out from it. 
And — then I zvas somebody else. 

I was a guy named Banni.ster who’d been 
born after Hiroshima. I was standing in a 
room a mile underground. The General was 
sitting at his desk playing with a pistol. We 
were temporarily safe here, though it wasn’t 
really safe anywhere. Still, there was a half 
mile of valves. Geigers and filters — the 
atomic absorption stacks — between us and 
the surface, so not much radiation could get 
in. 

“Let’s have it.” the General said. 

This was one war that hadn’t gone by the 
rules. This time the top men were getting 
killed — the ones who’d always died in bed 
before. So they were beginning to grope 
frantically around in Pandora’s box mut- 
tering, “Where’d Hope get to?” 

They were beginning to find out they 
should have stood in bed. 

The Second Atomic War. I — zvhoever I 
zvas — never thought about it. I’d lived it 
for some years. I guess I was one of the 
early mental mutations, part of the social 
mutation that had to take place after the 
world began to rock like a gyroscope slowing 
down. I knew already I didn’t think in quite 
the same way the older men did. Sometimes 
I wondered if the change, after all, meant 
only a keener ruthlessness. 

The General said, “Well? Where’s the 
report?” 

“He’s done it, sir,” I said. 

The General put the pistol down on his 
desk and showed his teeth. “Is it practical? 
That’s the point.” 


“It’s practical, sir,” I said. “Inanimatt 
matter only, so far. But such matter can 
be transported for a thousand-mile radius. 
A receiver must be spotted first, though. It 
means interplanetary colonization one of 
these days — because the first space-ship can 
take a receiver with it and open up a pipe- 
line for supplies. This is only the start.” 

“A matter-transmitter.” the General said 
and suddenly crumpled the papers on his 
desk. “Armistice? We’ll forget that now. 
GHQ will change its tune now we’ve got 
this new weapon.” 

“The inventor wants to use the device 
for peaceful purposes, .sir,” I said. “I heard 
rumors the war was over.” 

He looked at me. “They all do. Yes, the 
war was over yesterday. But we’ll start it 
again.” 

Then I knew that I was a mutation after 
all — mentally. The General and I just didn’t 
think the same way. We didn’t have the 
same values and we never would. He hadn’t 
matured in an atomic world. 

I had. I picked up the pistol from the 
General’s desk. His brain was obsolescent 
anyway. 

T hen I was somebody else. 

“Cities?” I said to my visitor. “No, 
we’ll never rebuild them. We won’t need 
to.” 

“But the world is in ruins.” 
“Technology is the answer.” 

“You mean machines can build where men 
cannot?” 

“Aren’t they doing it?” 

They were — yes. Old as 1 am, over a 
himdred^whoever I zoos — I could not re- 
member a time when the planet had not been 
radiotoxic. Not all of it, of course. The 
men that were left, the survivors, gathered in 
the islands relatively free from the poison. 
Travel, even by plane, would have been too 
dangerous, but we had the matter-trans- 
mitters. So we were not insular. There were 
the colonized planets. 

Still, Earth was the home. With the half- 
time of the radiodnst, it would be a long time 
before most of the planet would become 
habitable. Yet Earth could be rebuilt, in 
preparation, by machines. 

“I will show you my plan,” 1 said. “Come 
with me. I’ll be dead long before there’s a 
use for my Mechandroids, but that day will 
surely come.” 

He followed me along the corridor. He 


THE TIME AXIS 


was a powerful man, one of the most power- 
ful in the world, but he followed me like a 
young student. 

“It’s hard to know the best plan,’’ he said, 
half to himself. 

“We have a Galaxy to colonize. Human 
minds can’t cope with that. Nor can ma- 
chines. The machines must fail because 
they’re emotionless and inhuman. What you 
need is a human machine or a mechanical 
human. A perfect blend. A synthesis. Like 
my Mechandroids.’’ 

I pulled back a curtain and showed him 
the young strong body in the glass coffin. 
The machines clicked and hummed from all 
around. The wires quivered slightly. 

“This is one of my Mechandroids,” I 
said. “They cannot reproduce; they do not 
breed true. But they can be manufactured. 
It’s as though a machine had given birth to 
a human.” 

“He looks thoroughly normal.” 

“I chose his parents. I needed the right 
heredity. I selected the chromosomes most 
suited to my needs — and I tried time after 
time before I succeeded. But then this 
Mechandroid was born. Almost since birth 
he has been trained — hypnogenically — edu- 
cated, indoctrinated, by the thinking-ma- 
chines. 

“He has been taught to think as accurately 
as a machine. The human brain is theoreti- 
cally capable of such discipline but the ex- 
periment has never been tried before to this 
extent. Mechandroids, I believe, can solve 
all human problems, , and solve them cor- 
rectly.” 

“Machine-trained?” he said doubtfully. 

“Machines must serve men. They must 
free men, so that the capacity of the human 
brain may be fulfilled. These Mechandroids 
will smooth the path, so that man may follow 
the highest science — that of thought.” 

“There’s no danger?” he asked, looking 
at the silent Mechandtoid. 

“There’s no danger,” I said. 


CHAPTER XIV 
Vega-Born 


T hen I was somebody else. 

Saturn blazed in the sky above me, 
blotting out half the firmament, as I fled 


49 

down the twisting street from the Mechan- 
droid. I had to find somebody who knew 
what to do. But nobody seemed alive in the 
city. Nobody but the silent striding creature 
that was pursuing me. 

Homecoming, eh? I was Vega-born. I 
was sixteen. I'd taken the great jump across 
interstellar space in the matter-transmitter 
with my Age Group — nine of them — for the 
Earth tour and, because all Solar tours start 
with the other planets, we’d stepped out of 
the matter-receiver in Titan. 

Then everything happened at once, too 
fast for me to follow. The Mechandroid 
came running toward us — and we began to 
fall, one by one. So we scattered. With my 
usual bad luck, I managed to blunder right 
into a group of the Mechandroids who were 
working at something. 

They were in a big room, gathered around 
a table where a body lay. Above the table 
was a shining web — a neural matrix, hooked 
up to a matter-transmitter. I knew enough 
about basic physics to get some idea of what 
was happening and I stopped right there, 
like a statue, watching. 

The Mechandroids were making a super- 
Mechandroid — if that’s the term. People 
had talked about the possibility. Everybody, 
I guess, was a little afraid, because the 
Mechandroids were plenty smart and if they 
worked out a collateral mutation — they’re 
individually sterile — why, then, a super- 
Mechandroid would be horribly powerful 
and dangerous. For the Mechandroids can 
be controlled, but a super-Mechandroid 
couldn’t. 

They said, not long ago, that they weren’t 
capable of solving certain galactic problems 
and they wanted to go ahead and build what 
they called a second-stage Mechandroid. Of 
course they_ were forbidden. 

But the body on the table before mej under 
the shining neural web, was a super-Mechan- 
droid in the making. If a thing like that — 
with all its potential intelligence and lack of 
emotion — came alive it would be too dan- 
gerous to think about. 

I turned around and started running again. 
I kept on running. Once I heard a scream, 
pretty far away. 

If the only way the Mechandroids could 
build their second-stage Mechandroid was to 
destroy every human in the Titan city — why, 
that was the logical solution. So that’s what 
they’d done. I passed an Exploratory Sta- 
tion and took a minute to go in and grab a 


STARTLING STORIES 


50 

vacuum suit. Carrying it, I headed for a gate 
in the great dome that covered the city. 

Two hours later I was sitting on a moun- 
tainside half a mile away, looking down on 
the dome and wondering how long my air 
would last. I felt pretty lonesome with 
Saturn dropping toward the horizon and 
only tine dark and the stars around me. 

After awhile I saw the ships come. You 
idon’t see many ships these days but I knew 
what they were. Half a dozen of them came 
down silently out of the blackness and 
hovered above the city and a moment later 
there wasn’t any city — just a big burst of 
light and sound and energy. 

I sent up my SOS rockets and got picked 
up. On the trip back I heard a lot of talk 
afiout how we were going to get the Mechan- 
droids under tight control and keep them 
there. Supervision for every one of the crea- 
tures. No chance to get together and make a 
super-Mechandroid. 

I guess I didn’t enjoy Earth as much as 
I’d thought. It had been rebuilt and most 
of the radioactivity was gone. There was 
just one machine-city left — a museum these 
days. But the planet seemed small. 

Of course we started out from Earth in 
the beginning. But now' we’ve got the 
Galaxy. 

T hen I was somebody else. 

I was Job Paynter. 

Every individual is expendable, but the 
race is not. I am net, but not unnecessarily. 
My value to the solar community is high. 
And why not? I am competent in my work 
— general integration, Seventh Galactic Sec- 
tor, Earth-ba.sed. (I am competent, or was 
until we opened that cavern under the moun- 
tain on Earth, and found Job Paynter asleep 
there. No, I am competent .still. Puzzled but 
able to find an answer w'hen all the returns 
are in. Meanwhile I must think objectively 
about this mystery. I must think objec- 
tively.) 

The Mechandroid Belem’s desertion 
should have been reported to me immedi- 
ately. There is no excuse for incompetence 
in a world where specialized training begins 
before birth and where reorientation treat- 
ment can be had as often as necessary. 

When I investigated Belem’s disappear- 
ance I was much disturbed to learn how 
many other Mechandroids had vanished at 
the same time. I immediately assigned an 
all-out search. Galaxywide. But I was not 


too hopeful. 

The race moves on. It has its human 
limitations. The tools we make have no 
limitations at all. When we educate our- 
selves to learn to handle those tools most 
efficiently we can go on to the next step, 
whatever it may be. Meanwhile there must 
be check and balance — rigid control. 

I assigned to the Mechandroid Belem a 
problem involving the qjening of the Betel- 
geuse system. I had worked with Belem be- 
fore. While Mechandroid knowledge and 
experience goes into a conunon pool Belem’s 
reactions would be a shade quicker since he 
had once opened a similar system before, so 
I asked for him. At that time I was on the 
Antares base. When I checked later on 
Belem he had vanished. 

We went through the automatic routine. 
We studied the records and traced Belem’s 
movements up to the moment of his disap- 
pearance. We learned several interesting 
things. Obviously Belem had thought it 
necessary to disappear in order to solve his 
assigned problem. So we checked on the 
problem. The Andromeda system was in- 
volved and we discovered that there was 
something odd, hitherto undiscovered, about 
the Andromeda sector. 

First of all there was a potential nova in- 
volved. Secondly, a new type of matter ex- 
isted on one of the planets revolving about 
the star that was preparing to explode. It 
seemed to be a neutral matter, in absolute 
stasis. We quarantined the system imme- 
diately, pending farther investigation. 

You never know' into what queer bypatlns 
a Mechandroid’s investigation will lead. The 
creatures see factors involved that no human 
mind would bother with. They’re never con- 
tent with ten decimals but always work down 
to the absolute quantity. It didn’t surprise 
me a great deal to find recording-tapes in 
Belem’s laboratory which described and 
localized a terrestrial time-axis. 

We went to the point charted. Belem had 
already worked out a system for displacing 
the special atomic structure involved and 
waking the subjects. What subjects? I 
learned that soon enough. 

At the time-axis, which existed not far 
from the ancient bed of the St. Lawrence 
River, we found a shell of matter. R-type 
radiations showed us there were four living 
beings within that shell. They were in 
drugged hypnotic sleep. One of them was 
the Mechandroid Belem. The second was 


TIIE TIME AXIS 


myself. The others were an unknown man 
and woman. 

My Director discussed the situation with 
me. 

“Belem has been located?” I asked. 

“We thought so,” the Director said, “but 
you’re in the time-axis chamber too. You’re 
apparently in two places at once — so Belem 
may be as well. You know how dangerous a 
Mechandroid on an unorthodox problem can 
be. Don’t forget what happened to Titan 
twenty years ago. Well — obviously four peo- 
ple have, in the past, used drugs and 
hypnosis to free their minds from time-con- 
sciousness as their bodies were freed by the 
atomic displacement their device has set up 
around them.” 

“And I’m with them, it seems.” 

“You have no memory of it? But they 
came out of the past — all three of them.” 

“Circular time? Spiral time?” 

“I don’t know,” the Director said. “It’s 
theoretical so far. The empirical method 
obviously is to waken these four and find out 
what happened to them. How they came to 
be in this time-axis. Certainly a Mechan- 
droid loose in time is too dangerous to be 
permitted. As for you — ” 

We had no answer to that, either of us. 
I was standing.iiere, solid and real. But my 
double, my other self, was in the time-axis. 

“Waken them,” the Director said. 

That was obviously the next step. The 
only possible step. 

“Very well,” I said. It was my job. A 
job must be completed at any cost. Men are 
expendable. Mankind is not. 

HEN I was Jeremy Cortland again. 

We were in the Swan Garden, Payn- 
ter and I, looking at each other across far 
distances. The shadows of a dozen other 
selves faded and wavered through my mind 
— and simultaneously I felt a strange sort of 
mental withdrawal. With the dying remnant 
of Paynter’s memory, I knew the reason. 
As I had been reading — living in — other 
minds, so he had been reading my own. 

But he did not know that the Mechan- 
droid Belem — DeKalb — was spying through 
my brain. I felt certain of that, as certain 
as though — DeKalb — Belem had told me in 
so many words. No, Paynter might have 
stripped my mind clean of its memories, but 
there was one memory the Mechandroid’s 
curious powers had kept from his grasp — 
the brief adventure I had had, via matter- 


51 

transmitter, on another planet among Me- 
chandroids. 

Abruptly full realization came to me. I 
remembered the “autopsy” I had glimpsed 
— ^theMechandroids clustered about a long 
table on which a body lay and above which 
a shining web quivered. Once, twenty years 
ago, a boy had seen a similar sight on Titan 
— the creation of a super-Mechandroid, the 
experiment utterly forbidden through all the 
Galaxy. A city had been blasted into dust 
to stop that danger. I remembered, strangely, 
with another man’s memory. 

Now it was happening again. A second- 
stage man-machine was being constructed 
somewhere on some far planet — and Paynter 
did not know that, and I could not tell him. 
The post-hypnotic command was too strong 
for me. I could not betray the secret to 
Paynter even if I tried. 

Which reminded me that Paynter now 
had my memories. His face was grayish as 
he watched me. 

“That new type of matter we’ve just 
found in the Andromeda system,” he said. 
“I know what it is now. You called it the 
nekron.” 

Then he must know as well that I was 
infected with the — ^the thing, that I was a 
carrier, a citlture for that swift, slaying thii^ 
that no grip could hold. 

But he did not mention it. Instead, in a 
troubled way, he began to talk about Belem. 

“Belem was set the problem of opening 
the Betelgeuse system. Which is simple 
enough. But the Mechandroids are thorough. 
I suspect that Belem checked all the possible 
influential factors, and saw that nekronic 
matter exists in Andromeda on a planet of a 
sun ready to become a nova. 

“When that happens the violent explosion 
will carry the nekronic atoms, on light- 
radiations, far into interstellar space — far 
enough to reach and infect Betelgeuse. For 
some reason I don’t know yet Belem de- 
cided the time-axis should be—” He paused, 
scowling. “Did he leave those notes pur- 
posely? Did he Tmnt us to qpen the time- 
axis chamber, Cortland?” 

“How should I know?” I asked. “You’ve 
got all my memories now, haven’t you ?” 

“I think he did. But where is Belem 
now?” I knew that — but I couldn’t tell him. 

“Why did Belem disappear? Why have 
a dozen other Mechandroids disappeared? 
Why didn’t they announce the problem 
publicly T’ 



52 


STAKTUNG STOKIES 


He had forgotten he was still wearing the 
helmet. Now he lifted it slowly from his 
head cind I followed his example. 

“Because they had to work in secret,” he 
said tentatively. “Now what could they do 
in secret that they couldn’t do with all the 
science of the Galaxy to help them ? There’s 
only one thing. The Mechandroids must 
solve the problems set them — 

“They are making a second-stage Mechan- 
droid,” Paynter said flatly. “That must be 
what’s happening. Scylla and Charybdis 
then. For a super-Mechandroid is as certain 
a menace as the nekron itself.” 

“But why?” I asked, prompted by a con- 
viction that the devil I knew — the nekronic 
infection— was far worse than any manlike 
machine, no matter how perfected. 

“Because the Mechandroids would prob- 
ably obey it instead of us,” Paynter told me. 
“The Mechandroids are vulnerable because 
they’re partially human. A second-stage type 
probably wouldn’t be. When you consider 
the knowledge and skills the Mechandroids 
already have — and if they’re applying them 
to the creation of a mutation of their own — 
w'hy, such a monster could easily be invul- 
iMraWe. Suppose it w'orked on absolute 
logic? That might call for the extinction of 
aD fife-forms ! I don’t know. No one knows. 
How can anyone think like a mutation from 
the Mechandroid type?” 

I shook my head. “Don’t ask me. Pve got 
my own problems. Those four asleep in the 
time-axis. There must be an answer some- 
where, Paynter. There must be!” 

“There is-an answer.” He said it so sob- 
erly that I felt an instant’s chill in my own 
mind. I had good reason to feel a chill. 
Paynter went on in a very somber voice. 
“Now I’ll tell you the truth, Cortland,” he 
said. 


CHAPTER XV 
Crumbling Flesh 


T he four silent figures lay deep in their 
age-old slumber in the chamber under 
the mountain. I saw them there again. I 
could feel the weight of the helmet on my 
head and I was this time fully aware erf tlK 
Swan Garden around me and the sound of 
Paynter’s breathing at my side. But I was 


seeing the projection of a three-dimensional 
film. I was looking into the chamber as a 
camera’s eye had looked. 

“This is the official record we made when 
we opened the cave,” Paynter said invisibly 
at my elbow. “Now watch carefully what 
happens. No one .knows this but you and 
myself and the few technicians who were 
on the spot. We’ve kept it quiet. It’s so — so 
— well, watch and you’ll see.” 

. Nothing moved in the cave. Nothing had 
moved, I suppose, for a thousand years or 
more, not since all motion ceased when we 
sank into our long slumber. But now fights 
began to flash from beyond the gray egg of 
nothingness that walled us in. Paynter’s 
technicians were at work, trying to break 
that shell, trying to hatch out — what ? Some- 
thing terrifying. I knew that by the tone 
of Paynter’s voice. 

The lights flashed and faded, glowed again, 
paled. Now the camera drew back and I 
could see Paynter himself, standing beside 
a group of workers and a battery of ma- 
chines. All were intent upon the egg of time 
that held the sleepers. ‘ 

It was curious to hear Paynter speak then 
— the Paynter of the cavern, speaking in the 
film, not the Paynter who sat beside me. 
Duplicatiem piled upon duplication. 

“What are the chances?” I heard him ask. 
“Are they going to wake?” 

Murmurs answered him. After awhile, 
during which his eyes were very thoughtful 
upon the sleepers and upon the woman 
among the sleepers in particular, I heard 
him say in a musing voice, “We should have 
one of the entertainers here. If this is actu- 
ally a time involvement, as you say, then 
these people will have been asleep a Imig 
while and they’ll feel bewildered when th^ 
wake. 

“We need someone like — like — yes. Topaz 
— ^to sp^d their adjustment.” (I knew why 
he had thought of Topaz. I knew he had 
seen, without realizing it, the face of Topaz 
implicit in Dr. Essen’s sleeping face.) 

“Send for Topaz,” he said firmly, his 
voice echoing in the cavern as ours had 
echoed once, a thousand years or many 
thousands of years before. 

(Now perhaps this is as good a place 
as any for a word about the language he was 
speaking. It was certainly English but not 
as familiar a language as I write down. Any 
living tongue rapidly accumulates new words 
and phrases, drops old ones, assigns new 


THE HUE AXIS 53 


meanings to words already in use, so that 
the colloquialisms of one generation are gib- 
berish to the generation before it. 

The English we were speaking was 
changed, not a living language. ' Matter- 
transmission had spread civilization over a 
vast area and some common tongue was 
a necessity, but it couldn’t be a tongue that 
changed or it would soon cease to be a com- 
mon language. So it wasn’t easy to follow 
what these people said around me — tmt it 
wasn’t impossible either.) 

The camera ground on for about thirty 
seconds more and then blurred briefly. Be- 
side me Paynter spoke in a quick, impatient 
voice. 

"Skip all that. It’s just more experiments. 
This was the period when they completed 
the analysis of the clothing and' established 
the period from which it came as mid-Twen- 
tieth Century. It was about six hours after 
that before they breached the shell of force. 
I was notified and I sent for Topaz and came 
in myself for the finish. Now watch.” 

The cavern took shape again before me. 
Gear in the bath of what was prqbably ultra- 
violet, because it brought the images out so 
dearly, the four sleepers lay. But this time 
there was a hum of activity around them. 
Men passed before the camera, obscuring it 
now and then, carrying lenses and long glow- 
ing tubes and angular things a little like 
sextants. I heard Topaz’s sweet high laugh- 
ter and Pa3mter’s rebuke. 

“Watch,” Paynter said beside me. “It 
happened very suddenly.” 

A S HE spoke, I saw the change begin. 

It was like a cleavage in space, a 
widening crack that spiderwebbed across the 
empty air Kke a riven bubble of plastic. The 
sleepers showed for an instant, distorted as 
though seen through a shattering substance 
with a different refractive index from air. 

Then the cavern darkened for an instant. 
The four bodies seemed to spring into more 
dimensional reality — I sensed that their clar- 
ity was not due to the ultraviolet bath. It 
was as though a stereopticon image had be- 
come tangible. For a flashing second the four 
figures became part of — normal space. The 
s’tiell of energy Dr. Essen had created so long 
a^o no longer prisoned them beyond space 
and time. 

'The place grew darker still. It gave me a 
feeling of inexplicable urgency. I was on the 
verge of remembering something — ^that red- 


dish twilight with faint lights twinkling 
through it was — was — 

My thought paused. For the bodies were 
— crumbling. 

I had a second of horrible, sickening ter- 
ror, as though I felt my own flesh falling 
into dust too. Instinctively my fingers tight- 
aied on my legs. It was bewildering to feel 
my own flesii firm beneath my hands while 
before me in the projection I could see the 
same flash crumble from my bones. 

I watched myself disintegrate in the red 
twilight that had filled the cavern, fall swiftly 
into dust as if the thousand years of time 
we had cheated as we slept were taking its 
toll all in one final moment. But I knew that 
was not the answer. Living flesh does not 
crumble like that and we had been living 
until the egg troke around us. There was 
s(Mne more terrifying solution than that. 

Suddenly, in my bewilderment and terror, 
I knew what the answer was. That shadowy 
red twilight, with lights faintly flashing 
across an empty world — I had seen that dusk 
before. In that same twilight I had seen the 
Face of Ea looking out over the world’s 
night. That crumbling of our flesh into dust 
had been no accident. 

I knew I had watched the four of us mur- 
dered in our age-long sleep, deliberately 
dispersed into nothingness — by what? By 
whom? I had no way of guessing, but it 
seemed to me the red twifight that filled the 
cave indicated something of an answer. 
Nothing was happening to us at random, I 
knew fully in that moment of revelation. It 
was planned, deliberately planned — and by 
the people of the Face? 

They had summoned us across the mil- 
lenniums. Had they planned our shipwreck 
here on the strand of some middle future 
and then, with calm intent, scattered our dis- 
solving bones upon the cavern floor, having 
used and finished us? 

No, for we were stUl alive. 

Only I remembered my own identity 
clearly, but I was sure the icily violent ego 
of Murray lay buried somewhere beneath the 
surface of Paynter’s mind. I had looked into 
Letta Essen’s eyes in the lovely face of 
Tq>az. DeKalb must linger somewhere, 
submerged but waiting, behind the metal 
eyes of Belem. So we were not dead. 

The dust that had been ourselves ceased 
its crumbling and falling and settled into 
long, roughly man-shaped mounds on the 
floor of the cave. 


STARIXING STORIES 


54 

“That happened coincidentally,” Paynter 
said with elaborate detachment. “Btrt some- 
thing rather odd took place at the same time. 
Look.” , 

The scene changed. The focus had shifted 
to another lens on the far side of the cavern. 
In the foreground Paynter stood, behind 
Tc^az. Their fjices were intent and horri- 
fied as they watched the egg begin to crack. 

The film had stepped back sixty seconds 
and I was watching ag^in the first beginnings 
of the disaster inside the shell of time. That 
curious riving of the air began again, the red 
twilight glimmering through, repeating it- 
self as it would repeat endles^ whenever 
anyone chose to play this recording over. 

But now, as the bodies began to crumble, 
I saw a change slip across Paynter’s face. 
I sa-w it go blank, then suddenly go quite 
bright with a blaze of awareness — and then 
totally blank. 

His knees sagged. He folded up and 
dropped limply forward. Someone jumped 
to his side from the crowd at his back, 
caught him and eased him to the du^y floor. 
As he fell I could see beyond him the small, 
brightly colored body that was Topaz, cci- 
lapsed without a sound. 

There was milling confusion around the 
two for a moment. Then Paynter stirred 
and the crowd backed away a little. Paynter 
sat up. consciousness returning visibly to his 
blank face. Topaz, beside him, stirred and 
moved her hand, lifted it and, with her eyes 
still closed, brushed the clustering curls from 
her face with a curiously innocent vanity. 

At my elbow Paynter said, “All right, that 
was that. A moment’s faintness. Neither 
of us suffered anything worse. But let’s go 
back again to the moment the shell cracked 
and Topaz and I fainted. There was a crowd 
otrtside, waiting to see what would happen. 
You’d be surprised how easy it is to draw 
a crowd. They didn’t take k)i)g to assemble, 
via matter-transmission, once word gcrt; out. 
Some of our other cameras caught an inter- 
esting detail or two.” 

OW I saw a rolling slope thronged 
with men and women. IHgures were 
toiling up from a plain below, where last I 
had seen the forests of northern Canada 
stretch unbroken. In the far distance a low 
white building gleamed in the sunlight 
among orchards. 

“That building,” Paynter told me, “is the 
BLerrv Plum Orchard transmitter. All these 


people came through it. They came from 
all over the galaxy, of course. No way to 
trace where they started from. Which is a 
pity because — ^well, look.” 

I looked — and saw my own face. 

Duplication doubled and redoubled. My 
head swam as I tried to realize it, to count 
up how many Jerry Cortlands were in exist- 
ence in this one space and time. One had 
fallen to dust in the cave. One sat here in 
the Swan Garden beside Paynter. One 
strolled up the hillside toward the cavern, 
casually, through the crowd. It was myself, 
all right. I wore rather ragged shorts and a 
tattered pullover. 

I turned left around a rock with part of 
the crowd and then there was a sudden 
humming excitement all over the hillside and 
a flash of reddish light from the cave. 

“We’ve gone back again to the moment 
when the bodies began to disintegrate,” 
Paynter reminded me. “Down in the cave 
Topaz and I are collapsing. Up here — watch 
yourself.” 

I saw the same look of dazed wonder melt 
into blankness on my pictured face. I saw 
myself fall. 

“When you woke again.” Paynter was 
saying, “you were in the transmitter room 
by the Chy. Topaz was with you. That was 
when your memories started. Remember?” 

“You mean — that was me?” I demanded. 
“That man who came with the crowd? The 
me sitting here now ? Oh no, that isn’t possi- 
ble ! I remember ! I went to sleep in the cave 
in the Twentieth Century and woke here. I 
never came out of a transmitter and joined 
a crowd in the Laurentians. You told me 
you’d wakened me in the cave!” 

“Not exactly, no,” Paynter said. “I just 
gave you your head. There was so much 
here that nobody understood, you see. I 
wanted you to go your own way until I knew 
all I could learn from you. Then I told you 
the truth. Whnt could be fairer than that?” 

“But I’m not that man on the hillside! 
Who was he? Where did he come from? 
He isn’t me!” 

“Well, you’re that man. You saw what 
happiened to the bodies in the cave. Your 
duplicate, my duplicate, Belem’s, the wom- 
an’s — they all disintegrated. As for who you 
are, I don’t know. It’s odd but not unheard 
of. With galaxy-wide colonization there 
must be a good many people in stray comers 
who have never been registered. You’re one 
of them. 



THE TIME AXIS 55 


“We tried but there’s no record of your 
prints and history. However, you are the 
man who fainted on the hillside. It took you 
longer to recover than it did us and when 
you woke you called yourself Cortland and 
you’ve just given me some very fantastic 
history. Which rings true, incidentally. You 
believe it. You aren’t faking.’’ 

“Of course not. I was in the time chamber 
with the others. I — ” 

“You fell to dust, I suppose.’’ Pa)mter’s 
voice was impatiently amused. “Wait a min- 
ute. I thought I noticed something in the 
crowd near you. Hold on.” 

I felt him move. The picture flashed on 
before me, picked up again the scene on the 
slope. Paynter gave some orders in an un- 
dertone, and the camera paused, halting in 
mid-stride a man who had just entered the 
edge of the picture. 

It was De Kalb. 

No, not De Kalb — Belem. He turned his 
face to the camera and light glinted on the 
quicksilver eyes. 

The daylight flashed suddenly red again. 
The crowd nearby surged, chattering around 
me — my duplicate — as he fell. And Belem 
staggered. You could see the cold resolute 
Mechandroid brain gather itself to resist 
whatever assault this was upon its integrity. 
And the Mechandroid succeeded where the 
merely human had failed. Belem stumbled a 
little, leaned against the rock I had seen 
myself circle a moment before in the film, 
slid down so that he half crouched against 
it, his face in his hands. 

Then quietly, in about a quarter of a min- 
ute, he rose and walked back toward the 
Kerry transmitter, moving stiffly even for 
him, his face bewildered. 

Paynter was saying in my ear, “So that’s 
where he was!” But deep in the center of 
my mind a stirring of surprise gathered all 
my attention. Belem was watching too. 
Belem was thinking in almost the same 
words Paynter used, “So that is what hap- 
pened! Now — now I almost understand.” 


CHAPTER XVI 
The Suhterrane 


T here vs?as silence in the Swan Garden 
for a long moment. Then Paynter lifted 
the helmet from my head and stoiod lodcing 


down thoughtfully at me. The crystalline 
bower came back around me. I was looking 
into Murray’s face but it was Paynter, from 
Colchan Three and this middle future, who 
sf)oke. 

“There were four asleep in the cave,” he 
said. “There were four who blanked out for 
a time when the sleepers disintegrated. That 
must mean we living four were duplicates 
in more than appearance to those who were 
destroyed. I don’t understand, of course. 

“The integrating machines are wori<ing on 
it now. Eventually they'll hand us all the 
factors and their conclusions. Meanwhile, 
Cortland, I think I caught an impression erf 
yours while our minds were in rapport. Is 
Topaz a duplicate of that woman in the 
cave?” 

“Dr. Essen,” I said. “I think she is. Yes.” 
But silently, to myself, I was thinking, 
“They all have identities but me. I’m my- 
self. And yet I saw Jerry Cortland dissolve. 
That must mean that I’m the nameless man, 
the one who came up the hillside fresn no- 
where and fainted. When he woke up, he 
was Jerry Cortland' — me. And I’ll never 
dare sleep in this world for fear that when 
I wake I’ll be — him. Not myself. I saw my- 
self disintegrated in the cave for a purpose, 
by some means I don’t understand. I’m 
dead. When this man wakes up. I’ll — ” 

“All right, Cortland,” Paynter said brisk- 
ly. “I’ll leave you here for an hour. You’ll 
be quite safe, of course. Topaz will rejoin 
you in a moment or two.” 

“Am I a prisoner?” I asked. 

“Well, no, not exactly.” He gave me a 
grim smile. “You want the same things we 
do, I sujjpose. An answer to all this. I’m 
assuming you’ve told us the truth. I’m as 
sure erf that as it’s possible to be. Of course 
you may have powers you’ve been able to 
hide from us, so we’ll keep an eye on you 
until we know more. Topaz will bring you 
to me in an hour. By then I hope we’ll have 
an answer from the integrators.” 

He gave me a stiff salute of farewell and 
turned away, pushed among the lacy pal- 
metto growths and was gone, presumably 
into the matter-transmitter. I couldn’t un- 
derstand why he hadn’t killed me. 

For there had been five in the time-axis, 
not four. And the fifth was the most danger- 
ous thing ever let loose upon a galaxy. The 
nekronic killer had come out with me. How, 
I could not guess, if it were true that I was 
not Jerry Cortland, but a nameless man fpcmi 


STARTLING STORIES 


5S 

the hillside below the Laurentian cavern. 
The infection was not in the flesh then but in 
the — mind? The memory f At any rtKwnent 
I knew I might feel that blinding shock 
thrilling through me, the exploding burst of 
energy that meant another death. 

Paynter knew. He had read my memories. 
He wasn’t top man, of course. When his 
findings were integrated the orders might 
be simply, “Kill Cortland.” It’s what I’d 
have done in their place. It was only Ic^cal. 

So they expect^ me to wait, did they? 
Wait for what, the firing squad'? 

Well, maybe I wouldn’t do it. I felt like 
laughing when I remembered how ccanpli- 
cated life had seemed back in my own day. 
There I’d had only one time, one space, one 
Jerry Cortland to consider. And even then 
I’d been on the rollercoaster with a ^linter 
in the seat of my pants. Now Jerry Cort- 
land was dead. He was lying in a heap of 
dust in a cavern somewhere on another plan- 
et for all I knew. 

Illogical? Oh, sure. For now I was up 
against something too big for the human 
mind to comprehend, really and — irraticmal- 
ly, I feh cheerful. 

I saw anotlier of the pale green oranges 
floating along the stream and plucked it out 
deftly, sank my teeth into it. It was alco- 
holic, in a mildly exhilarating way. I let the 
tingling juice run down my throat and — 

“You are m great danger,” a voice in my 
brain said coldly and suddenly. 

I clapped my free hand to my head and 
pressed the bone beneath the skin in some 
primitive impulsive attempt to massage the 
devils out of my brain. He was there — De 
Kalb, Belem — with his cold metal gaze look- 
ing out through my eyes and his cold metal 
thoughts moving through mine. 

“Can you read my mind T” I asked, all but 
vocally, making the question dear in the 
front of my mind. 

“No. Only when you put yoiu" thoughts 
as clearly as this. Please try to keep them 
clearer. That fruit you are eating — it fogs 
the mind. Throw it away. I must consult 
you now. ” * 

ELIBERATELY I took another deep 
bite of the alcoholic orange. No one 
had invited him into my mind, I thought 
somewhat incoherently, the Swan Garden 
looking pleasantly blurred before me. I had 
no red reason to trust either De Kalb or 
Bdem. I didn’t like the way the Mechan- 


droid could crawl into my head, pull up a 
chair and settle down for a free sight-seeing 
trip. 

If it worked the other way now — I’d en- 
joy a quick round-trip through Topaz’ mind, 
for instance. She was not only lovely iHit 
unpredictable as an ocelot. I’d have given a 
good deal to look into her mind. I imagined 
it would surprise me. And as for Paynter — • 
I knew his type. He had that conviction of 
absolute rightness that makes fanatics. He 
hadn’t left me entirely on my own, I was 
pretty sure. 

“Drop that fruit,” the voice in my mind 
said. “Drop that fruit. " 

I didn’t intend to. I started to flex my 
elbow to brii^ the orange up for another 
bite — but my muscles weren’t working very 
well. They weren’t working at all. My arm 
went lax, my fingers turned into putty and 
the orange fell with a splash back into the 
stream. Regretfully I watched it bob away. 

“Do you see that purple fruit?” the inex- 
orable voice inquired. “There, coming over 
the bend. Catch it.” 

I decided to do nothing. 

I found myself plucking a purple object 
shaped like a cigar from the stream, lifting it 
to my mouth, biting off a section. It was 
succulent too, but astringent. The giddy 
elatftm began to leave me. More soberiy I 
took a second bite. 

“Very good,” Belem’s disembodied voice 
said. “I don’t want to work that hard again. 
It isn’t easy to do this. You may need all 
the strength I can give you sooner than you 
think. Don’t make me exhaust myself fight- 
ing you.” 

“How do you work it?” I inquired with 
the front part of my consciousness. “Where 
are you, anyhow? Isn’t it crowded in there? 
Look out for the left lobe — it’s slippery.” 

“That is probably humor,” Belem said 
coldly. “Wasted on a Mechandroid. I have 
no intention of telling you how I do this bi*t 
there is no reason why you shouldn’t know 
where I am. Exactly where you saw me 
last. My body remains in stasis while my 
mind is in close rapport with yours. 

“I can see and hear and feel everything 
you do. I can read your clearer thoughts. 
I can, with a great effort, control your ihotor 
reflexes for a brief time. Whether you like it 
or not your fate and mine are now linked 
until I can effect a separation again.” 

“For better or worse,” I said wildly. “For 
richer or poorer — I see another orange com- 



THE TIME £S1S 57 


ing ?riong, shall we have one together?” 

"Finish that purple fruit,” Belem ordered, 
“You may need another. I am going to take 
you through the transmitter now to a cer- 
tain underground region whose existence we 
have suspected for a long while. I learned 
its location during your rapport with Payn- 
ter. 

“It is a highly secret place but together I 
believe we can enter it and perform an im- 
portant task. I believe it will in tte end be 
as important to you as to us. In some way 
none of us yet understands your destiny and 
mine are linked through that time-axis where 
we both have slept. We — ” 

“Don’t fcu'get Paynter was there too,” 
I reminded him. 

“I know. I’ve explored your memory 
alcMig with Paynter. I know all the essen- 
tials now and I believe I begin to get a glim- 
mer of the pattern. Our first task is to visit 
the Government Subterrane. If you will turn 
to the left now and go back along the path 
to the transmitter room — ” 

“Why should I?” I was feeling sullen as 
the exhilaration died in me. “This is my 
brain, not yours. I have my -own problems. 
Go crawl into somebody else’s mind or do 
your own dirty work. I’m in enough of a 
jam right now with Paynter, or I will be 
when — ” 

“When he realizes that you are a carrier 
for the nekronic killer, exactly. Paynter will 
not hesitate to sacrifice you when the time 
comes. When it does you and I will be at a 
safe distance, with the object I mean to get 
in the Subterrane. Now will you go or must 
I force you?” 

1 STARTED to speak — ^aloud in my an- 
ger— but before the words could come 
there was a ripple of self-conscious laughter 
among the star-shaped leaves and Topaz 
swept forward through the fronds and spun 
around before me. 

She was covered with spangles, glitter- 
ing, dazzling, flickering, all colors, clinging 
to her skin, her hair, her floating veils. 

"Oh, how beautiful I am !” she caroled, 
with an air of innocent vainglory. “Tell me, 
did you ever see anything so beautiful be- 
fore?” 

"Never in my life,” I assured her. 
“It’s—” 

My jaw snapped shut on the last word. 
My muscles tightened and without the least 
conscious volition I found I had turned my 


back to her and was marching down the 
path toward the matter-transmitter. In my 
twain a cool, metallic mind seemed to be say- 
ing with an intonation of despair, ‘‘Human 
beings !” 

It was interesting to watch my own hands 
manipulating the buttons that selected the 
proper wave-bands for our destination. The 
process locked far too simple — ^there were 
only half a dozen buttons in all — but I as- 
sumed the Mechandroid, gazing through my 
eyes, tightening and releasing my mflscles, 
knew what he was doing. 

He did. The roc«n shimmered before me, 
disorientation and brief nausea shook us 
both together in gigantic oblivion and — 

E EMERGED into a large under- 
ground concourse— I think it was 
underground, it sounded and felt like it — 
thronged with busy men and women who 
paid me only the slightest of glancing atten- 
tion as I pushed among them, half guided 
now and half of my own volition. There were 
people here in costumes so various that I 
suppose my own clothing was no more out- 
landish than anyone else’s. 

I think this was a nexus in the great web 
of matter-transmission, under the surface of 
what planet I have no idea. 

People from colonies all over the Galaxy 
must have changed stations here. I know 
I attracted no attention as I hurried through 
the cosmopolitan crowd toward a row of 
transmission rooms in the center of the con- 
course, closed the door behind me, manipu- 
lated more buttons. 

It was' curious, I thought to myself as the 
familiar disorientation swam through my 
brain, how little I was seeing of this mar- 
velous world of the middle future. Topaz 
had assured me that cities were obsolete and 
mankind lived in luxurious isolation wher- 
ever his fancy dictated. 

Yet all I had seen so far, except for the 
Swan Garden, had been the underpinnings 
of the culture, the girders upon which its 
farflung luxuries were builded. What lay 
aboveground, on the flowering surfaces of 
the planets, I was not to know, then or — per- 
haps— ever. 

The room steadied about me. The door 
slid open. 

I looked down a long corridor bathed in 
white light. 

“This is the Subterrane,” Belem’s voice 
in my brain said. 



58 


STABTUNG STORIES 


CHAPTER XVII 
The World of Belem 


H ad I been expecting something semi- 
miraculous I should have been disap- 
pointed. I had seen similar passages under 
Grand Central Station. Here there was noth- 
ing at all unusual — simply a white corridor, 
empty and silent. 

“In your day,” the Mechandroid toki me, 
“this would have been a grouping of thick 
doors and locks. The Subterrane is the 
arsenal of the government. It isn’t on Earth. 
Walk forward.” t 

I obeyed. I felt a brief tingling, a rather 
plea-sant vibration that passed and was gone. 

“You have just passed between a cathode 
and anode that would have disrup>ted the 
brain of any Mechandroid. The pattern is 
keyed so that it’s hamriess to humans. No 
Mechandroid has ever been p)ermitted in the 
Subterrane — till now.” 

So they were vulnerable after all. 

“Why, yes,” Belem remarked, surprised'. 
“Every existing thing is capable of negation 
— of altering its condition to non-existence. 
'The less adaptable an organism, the easier 
it is to destroy. But this cathode-anode de- 
vice is not pcHtable and its field is quite lim- 
ited. 

“It is useful only .for defense — not for 
offense. You would be destroyed, too, if you 
hurled yourself on a sharpeiied stake. The 
other devices are aimed at human beings who 
aren’t wearing the protective helmets. Luck- 
ily-” 

I wasn’t in a corridor any more. Not a 
normal corridor. Planar geometry had sud- 
denly and empirically been disproved. My 
eyes, conditioned to normal p)erspective, went 
dizzily out of focus as abruptly as gravity 
itself seemed to alter. 

You can’t describe the indescribable. Lines 
of perspective meet at the vanishing point — • 
sure. So th^ say. But the walls and floor 
and ceiling erf the white-lit tunnel curved in 
insanely a few feet ahead of me, crossed 
somehow and re-extended themselves toward 
me like a tapering cone. Such distortions 
of matter may be normal at the end of the 
universe but you shouldn’t be able to reach 
out and touch — ■ 

Touch? But I couldn’t even do that. 


Gravity had gone wrong, too. I suspected 
there was a riptide in the semicircular canals 
of my ears. Because I felt that I was falling, 
no matter in what direction I looked. 

There was no corridor. There was only 
white emptiness. Dead white and feature- 
less except for the cone that pointed accus- 
ingly at me. I tried to move forward and a 
horrible, sick, giddiness loosened my muscles 
and then tightened them again as I strained 
to stand rigid. As long as I didn’t move an 
inch I might not fall. 

“Walk forward!” the voice in my mind 
insisted. 

I shut my eyes and walked forward. At 
Belem’s annoyed command, I reopened them 
and either fell or ran toward the white cone 
that was the corridor itself extended beyond 
infinity and in geometric reversal. As I 
moved I found myself curving away, along 
the line of the distortion, so that without 
knowing how it had happiened I was hurry- 
ing in the opposite direction with my ba^ 
to the cone. 

“I can’t do this too often without rest- 
ing,” Belem said. “Open your mind, Rebx. 
I^t me control your muscles. This illusion 
is for human eyes only. I can screen it out 
and see the right way.” 

It took tremendous effort on my part to 
keep my eyes open and my muscles relaxed. 
That disgusting falling sensation kept grow- 
ing stronger and every sane instinct I had 
reacted violently at what my optk nerves 
described. I was walking into a vanishing 
point — that was the only way to describe it. 
I walked right into the pioint of the white 
cone and through it — don’t ask me how, be- 
cause it was an illusion — and then I was 
in the white corridor again. 

I took ten unsteady steps, and came out 
into a wider tunnel that stretched, curving, 
to left and to right. Belem guided me to tbe 
left. 

T here were hieroglyphics on the walls 
at regular intervals but I didn’t realize 
they indicated doors until the Mechandroid 
told me to stop. All I had to do was touch 
the wall and a shutter opiened like a cat’s- 
eye, slitted, then oval, enlarging till I could 
step through into the room beyond. Behind 
me the panel closed noiselessly. 

It was a large room and there was a mat- 
ter-transmitter in a corner. The walls were 
banked with paneling carrying the most emn- 
plicated set of controls I had ever seen. On 


THE TIME AXIS 59 


a glassy pillar in the center of the floor was 
a transparent box, small enough to hold in 
my pahn, and it was bathed in a sparkle erf 
glittering lights that poured out from two 
pencil-like cylinders embedded in the pillar, 
one on each side of the box. 

Within the box was a golden marble. 

“I know,” I said cfizzily. “It’ll grant me 
three wishes.” 

“That type of humor is a defense mecha- 
nism against fear,” Belem told me unsympa- 
thetically. “Here is the main reason why I 
chose the difficult and dangerous method of 
entering your mind. No men of this age 
would have gone with me this far. They’re 
all conditioned against Mechandroids. 

“You were the only one who could and 
would have got into the Subterrane. In that 
transparent box is, I think, the only weapon 
against which we have no defense at all. As 
long as it’s within the field of radiation, as 
it is now, it’s harmless. Remove it and, with- 
in two minutes, it becomes activated.” 

“What is it?” 

“A complicated pattern of energies. It’s 
positively charged now. When it’s activated, 
it becomes negatively charged. Then it cre- 
ates a dead field for nearly a mile around it, 
in which no matter-transmitters will oper- 
ate.” 

“That doesn’t seem so dangerous. You 
can get along without matter-transmitters 
long enough to walk a mile, can’t you ?” 

“Not if we’re under siege. You saw our 
laboratory. Warfare is still a matter of siege 
unless one wants to wipe everything out and 
they don’t. They’ll want to inspect our work. 
With matter-transmission you can’t besiege 
a place. 

“Everyone inside would simply leak away 
and escape, taking all their important work 
with them. This one weapon here is the only 
completed matrix available at this time. It 
takes a long v/hile to complete the necessary 
energy-pattern. So, if we eliminate it, we 
can stand off a siege long enough to clear out 
the laboratory.” 

“Eliminate it how?” 

“Set the matter-transmitter controls to — 
anywhere. Some obsolete receiver at the 
edge of the galaxy, maybe. Pick up th^ box 
and — fast ! — put it in the transmitter, before 
the radiation dies and it activates. Then the 
box win appear at the edge of the galaxy and 
paralyze energy facilities there.” 

“For how long?” 

“I don’t know. Long enough. It wc^dn’t 


harm humans but they’d have to walk to a 
station outside its field. The box can’t be 
moved, incidentally, or you could ju^ carry 
it to a spot beyond the range of the nearest 
transmitter. After it’s activated it has almost 
absedute inertia. Right now, though, it’s 
portable. Can you touch it?” 

I put out a tentative hand that was stopped 
in mid-air about a foot above the box. I 
pushed against nothing. I couldn’t pass the 
invisible barrier. 

“I thought so,” Belem said. “That stud 
in the pedestal — try pressing it.” 

I did. I reached for the box again. This 
time I could do it. The defense field, what- 
ever it had been, was gone. The box was not 
very heavy. I set it down again with care. 

“All right,"*’ I said. “Fine. But what 
about me ? Why should I help you ?” 

“Paynter will kill you if you don’t,” Belem 
said patiently. “If he doesn’t his superiors 
will as soon as it’s established that you’re 
a carrier of that nekronic killer, whatever it 
it. And I think I know. If you help me I 
believe I can solve that problem too. 

“There are two obvious reasons why I’ll 
protect you. First, I can’t get out of your 
brain until you’re in physical contact with 
me again. If you’re lolled before then the 
psychic rapport impact may kill me too. Aft- 
er we finish this job you’ll get in the trans- 
mitter and return to the world where I am 
now — the one where you first saw me. As 
for the second reason — ” 

SUDDEN, violent contraction of aH 
my muscles, like a simultaneous cramp 
in every limb, doubled me up without the 
slightest warning. I fell fmrward — saw the 
floor hurtling toward me — and felt my rebel- 
lious muscles relax again just in time to save 
myself from a crash. I was so startled that I 
scarcely noticed the lance of gauzy light, 
tendriled like a gobweb, that floated in the 
spot from which I had just been hurled. But 
Belem’s thought said, “Paralysis projector!” 

What happened after that took almost no 
time at all. 

When I got my feet under me I whirled 
and faced the opened door-panel and the man 
standing there in arrested motion, weapon 
lifted. It was Paynter, his pale eyes glitter- 
ing, his mouth drawn down in a grimace of 
anger and surprise. The weapon had a bas- 
ket-hilt and a muzzle that looked like rub- 
bery lips, puffing in and out petulantly. 

Belan had sensed his presence before I 



60 STARTLING ST(M8IES 


did. It was the Mechandroid’s control of 
my motor reflexes that had jerked me for- 
ward in a spasmodic dodge that barely 
cleared the blast of the puffing weapon. 

I had no weapon of my own. Paynter was 
centering his chi me for a second, more ac- 
curate shot. It hadn’t the ghost of an idea 
how to avoid it. 

“What do I do now?” I demanded in 
desperation of the mind in my brain. 

“I don’t know — be quiet, I’m trying to 
think!” was all Belem had to offer. 

I sought Paynter’s eyes, trying to put 
hypnosis into my own, saying, “Now wait 
a minute, Paynter! Hold on! I—” 

He did not answer in words. He raised 
the weapon and took deliberate aim at me. 

I wondered whether he had been following 
from the first, how much he knew — why he 
chose to kill me now, without hearing a 
word of defense. He wasn’t even curious 
about how I’d got here. 

The puffy mouth of his weapon sucked 
in deeply and began to pout out again. In 
another second a web of light would shoot 
out at me and there was no room here even 
to dodge again, without colliding with that 
pedestal upon which the marble in its glass 
box rested. If I do<%ed I’d hit it. 

If I dodged 

That was the answer, of course. So ob- 
vious neither of us had seen it. It was the 
simplest answer in the world. I almost 
laughed as I snatched the glass box from its 
resting place and, in the same quick moticHi, 
hurled it straight at Paynter’s face. 

No CHie can say he wasn’t fast. His mind 
recognized' the danger I had dropped in his 
hands in the same instant his muscles re- 
acted. There was only one possible thing to 
do, and he did it. He dropped his gun and 
caught the precious and terribly dangerous 
box in mid-air. 

I didn’t stop to watch. I was already half- 
way through the door of the matter-pro- 
jector by the time Paynter’s weapon hit the 
floor. I slammed the door shut with one 
kick and put my hands on the wall where the 
dials were. 

' “Belem!” I thought urgently. 

On the other side of the slammed door, 
Paynter would be rushing the box back into 
place, back into its bath Ijefore the twor. 
minute interval elapsed that would activate 
the thing and stop all matter-transmission 
for a cubic mile. If he fumbled it I was stuck 
here — unless Belem moved fast. 


Luckily he moved. My fingers, without 
my own volition, were hastily spinning the 
verniered dials. Tarnished metal walls 
flashed into view around me. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
Space Wreck 


B elem said, “No, we’re not going out. 

We’re in the transmitter of an aban- 
doned space-ship around Centaurus H. We 
located it from our laboratory years ago. 
We know a good many of these out-of-the- 
way transmitters, useful in cases just like 
this. I can’t set the controls to take us di- 
rectly to my headquarters or Paynter could 
simply read the dials and follow us as he did 
from the Swan Garden.” 

I found I was breathing heard. The 
Mechandroid said we’d have to hurry. “We 
transported several cubic yards of air with 
us but that won’t last long. Here, let me — ” 
I watcted my hands move deftly on the 
corroded dials. I had one dizzying moment 
in which I thought of the terrible deeps of 
space all around us, the dead ship circling 
an alien star-group while our last air seeped 
out around us into the infinities of the dark. 

Fortunately for my ovra sanity, I had very 
little time in my turbulent hours in this mid- 
dle future to pause and think. I had been 
catapulted into a culture so different from 
my own that my mind could not, I think, 
have endured the concept of those vast 
spaces which everyone here took as a com- 
monplace. It was only in the small, unchang- 
ing superficialities of the culture that I could 
conceive of it at all. 

The walls shimmered, blurred — were 
translucent metal through which I could see 
'a circle of bright green grass and a ring of 
low-roofed houses whose eaves turned up 
like Chinese roofs. The only living things in 
sight were a pigeon, flying low and trailing 
a red ribbon in its beak, and a dog who ran 
l)elow, jumping to catch the ribbon now and 
then. I could hear it barking. 

“Hurry,” Belem said and my hands found 
the dials on the clouded transparency of the 
wall. These dials were set in rings of colored 
tile but they worked like any other dials, I 
turned them, the room blurred . . . 

I had had no idea there could be such a 


61 


THE TIME AXIS 


•^^riety of transmitter-Treceiver rooms. Few 
of them had transparent walls, so that I had 
to guess what lay outside, but the rooms 
themselves ranged from functional steel 
boxes to padded lounges. Several times they 
swam with the perfume of exotic unknowns 
who must just have stepped out after a trip 
from — who could begin to guess where? 

And once two wilting flowers the size of 
dinner-plates and colored a deep phishy 
crimson lay on a glass floor where some 
traveler had dropped them, stepping out. 
Th^ went with us through four transitions 
and we left them at a fifth when Belem said 
at last, “Here we‘11 get out. It’s another 
concourse. I think we’ll be safe now if we 
take a kmg jump to my base laboratory. 
Open the ckwr.” 

L3ce the other concourse it reminded me 
vividly of the Times Square shuttle. Crowds 
hurried across vast open spaces, vanished 
into cubicles and poured from other cubicles 
in an intricate mesh of movement that Knked 
a whole galaxy together. 

“ See that row of doors with the blue lights 
over them?” Belem said. “Try to find an 
empty booth. I think the third from the 
end — ” 

A door opened as he indicated — with my 
own hand — which one he meant and a fat 
man in a long furred cloak upon which snow 
lay in stHl unmelted crystals came bustling 
importantly out, beating his cloak as he 
came. 

I stepped in, closed the door, avoiding the 
puddles erf melting snow which the fat man 
had tracked in from some world I couldn’t 
imagine. Perhaps Earth. 

“These rooms would be a fine way to 
spread disease, wouldn’t they?” I asked 
Belem as I reached for the dial. “No telling 
where this snow-water came from, but it’ll 
go along with us, I suppose, and we’ll track 
your laboratory with melted water from 
Neptune or Canopus or — ” 

“It is most unlikely,” Belem began 
pedantically in my mind, “that you would 
find snow — ” 

“Okay, okay. Forget it.” I had just un- 
covered a disturbing thought. I was a car- 
rier of disease myself. Had I been sowing 
the nekronic death on a dozen worlds al- 
ready, leaving the virus in transmitters for 
those^ who came after me to carry still farther 
abroad ? 

“There is no way of knowing that yet,” 
Belem said. “Turn the dials.” 


I did. 

It seemed to me that this time the vibra- 
tion of the transmission was a Httle longer 
and more violent than before. I wondered 
if we were going an unusually long distance. 
Then the room steadied again and I pushed 
open the door. 

I expected the laboratory, enormously 
braced, enmeshed with catwalks and, spar- 
kling far across the room, the bright neural 
webbing that meant the dangerous man-ma- 
chine was in the making. Perhaps Belem’s 
motionless figure would stand> there waiting 
beside the door. 

I looked out into the seething concourse 
we had just left. The fat man in the snowy 
cloak was only a dozen paces away in the 
crowd. We had not stirred frean this sta- 
tion. 

"Try again,” Belem said in my mind, 
after what seemed a very long pause, full of 
strain. 

I tried. The room shook artd blurred, 
steadied. 

I opened the door. 

T he concourse was still there. This time 
the fat man had almost vanished in tte 
crowd though I could still see his fur cloak 
swing out as he dodged to avoid a group of 
adolescents with bright knapsacks on their 
shoulders, bound for— what resort world in 
what distant corner of the galaxy ? 

“Shut the docu,” Belem said. I got a feel- 
ing of tight-reined control from his mind 
superimposed upon mine. He was fright- 
ened, trying to keep panic down. “This is 
very .simple, ” he said, nerhaps as much to 
himself as to me. “The receiver in our 
laboratory is no longer working. 

“It can mean only one thing — Paynter 
must have known all along where we were. 
Or he had access to those who did know. 
However he found us he must already have 
sent the weapon ahead.” He didn’t name 
the weapon, but I caught his mental picture 
of the golden marble in the glass box. 

“All right,” I said. “That lets me out, 
then. We’re finished.” 

“Not at all.” Belem’s thought was sharp. 
“We must find the nearest receiver to the 
laboratory that works. It will be somewhere 
in the city. Then we must walk. There are 
secret entrances the government can’t possi- 
bly have found yet. After all there hasn’t 
b^n time for much to happen. But I must 
get back to my body and you’ll be safer with 


162 SfaORTUim STORIES 


us than wMi the government." 

"It looks more to me as if we’d be safe in 
jail together,” I said. 

“Try the dials again,” was all Betem re- 
plied. 

Someone was knocking impatiently on the 
door of the cubicle as the walls' shimmered 
^ain and the long stretches of infinite space 
drew out between this world and the name- 
less place of the laboratory. I suppose tire 
particles of my body dispersed alo*^ that 
path and reassemW^ again. I never did 
know much about how it worked. But when 
my head cleared I was in another room, 
smaller, square, smelling of machine oil. I 
opened the door. 

T his was it. I remembered tire rtrang^ 
pale daylight, the bands of thin borealic 
light across the blade sky, the double sun 
swinging far off and not very bright above 
the time-ruined city. 

But it was a very busy city this time. Men 
in uniform were hurrying through the streets 
in low square cars that floated without 
wheels, quite fast. Groups of them flickered 
zind materialized and groups flickered and 
were gone at the transmission-centers which 
were this city’s transportatiem system. Far 
off over the rusty roofs a ctme of blue-white 
light, blinding in that dark daylight, seenred 
to damp down over something at the dty’s 
edge — I could guess what. 

"‘Hurry,” Belem said in my mind. “Out 
here, around the next comer and step on the 
black disc in the pavement. If you move fast 
I don’t think anyone will recognize you, 
though a cordon must be out for you by 
now. They’ll expect us.” 

“Me, not us,” I said, dodging thrc«^h the 
doorway. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Payn- 
,ter let me go and then trailed me with tire 
idea I might lead him to you. He’ll have 
a lot of explaining to do now that I’m miss- 
ing. But he can’t have guessed you were 
there — ^more or less — all the time. Here’s 
the disc. Now what?” 

“Step on it,” Bekm said. “The dark 
half.” 

The circle was six feet across, half dark, 
half palish. 

The pale half was unmarked, but the dark 
half had an arrow inlaid in it which was 
pointing right. 

I stepped gingerly on the arrow. 

I was standing on the pale half of a large 
disc. But not the same one. The buildings 


were different abound me. A carload of soi~ 
diers drifted rapidly past toward one of the 
b^;ger discs, float^ over it, centered and 
vanished. 

“At the next comer,” Belem urged me. 
“Take the dark half again. Hurry!" 

Leap by miraculous leap I traversed tire 
dark dear air of that curious city. And as 
I went it seemed to me I began to get a glim- 
mer of the decoration which had once maefe 
it spectacular in its heyday, something one 
couldn’t see from a single standpoint but 
grasped bit by bit as one went through great 
arcs and vistas of its streets. 

One bit at a time showed nothing but each 
leap through space, each glimpse from a dif- 
ferent point, built up a little more of the plan 
in the memory, so that eventually a strain 
concept of the art emerged, a step farther 
than the architecture of my own day, when 
solids and surfaces were used. Here move- 
ment and distance were of equal importance. 
Like a moving picture, except that it was 
the city which stood still and the watcher 
who moved. 

P RESENTLY Belem hahed me. We had 
come out near a fenced enclosure full of 
hulks of junked machinery, floating cars that 
still hovei'ed motionless just off the ground, 
all their ribs showing, small lifeboats from 
beached spaceships, odds and ends of jetsam 
wholly nameless to me. 

“Over there, the little ship under the 
girders,” Belem said. “Make sure nobody’s 
watching, then climb into it.” 

I did, wondering who had last sat in the 
tattered leather bucket-seat before the instrui- 
ment panel, what he had seen through the 
glass, what wrecked liner and whirling stars, 
Belem interrupted the fancies impatiently. 
Under his orders I pushed the seat aside and 
pulled up a trap in the floor. A ladder went 
down. 

Nobody had discovered this passage yet, 
though I expected to find at any corner that 
somebody was waiting for me with a par- 
alyzer that puffed rubber lips in and out. 
At the end I tapped a signal on a metal door 
and after awhile someone pulled it creaking 
open. 

The gigantically braced laboratory was 
blue with smoke and bluer with the blimfing 
light of the cone that hung above it, glaring 
through the broad windows. 

Belem’s motionless figure waited where he 
had left it. 


THE TIME AXIS 63 


CHAPTER XIX 
The Marble 


S T WAS curious to look into his face and 
find it alien, he who had' been so inti- 
mate a part of my mind. The emotionless fea- 
tures, the strange, quicksilver eyes belonged 
to De Kalb but the voice was — as I pointed 
out to him — the voice of Esau. 

He wasn’t amused. He seemed to find his 
own body rather strange for a moment or 
two, for after he had left me he tried it out 
stiffly, moving to and fro with short steps. 

“You Ipok like De Kalb,’’ I said, watch- 
ing him. “You move like De Kalb. IBelem — 
where is De Kalb now?” 

He gave me a swift, strange, emotionless 
look. “I told you I was beginning to under- 
stand,” he said. “I was. But I haven’t the 
full answer yet and — look, Cortland.” 

I followed his gesture. The enormous 
room, braced with its monstrous girders, lay 
before us. There was orderly activity all 
through the vast place, centering around a 
control panel that might be the device creat- 
ing the dome of light that shielded this area, 
a white wall curtaining off everything out- 
side the windows. Sometimes coruscating 
flashes sparkled here and there along the 
curtain. Attacks — failing ? So little time bad 
elapsed, really, since we left Paynter. This 
siege must be less than half an hour old and 
its full violence yet to come. 

Under a web of shimmering fire at the 
far side of the room the table still stood with 
a body stretched out on it. Here most of 
the figures were at work on their second- 
stage Mechandroid, waiting for it to come 
alive. 

“That’s the most important thing that’s 
happening here now,” Belem said gravely. 
“I’m needed. I have no time nor mental 
energy to spare to solve your puzzles for 
you. Later, if we live. I’ll try.” 

He turned swiftly away from me and 
crossed the big room toward the table. I 
followed in silence. 

The second-stage Mechandroid lay quiet 
on its table, its eyes, closed, the face serene 
and not quite human. There was, I thought, 
a remote familiarity about it too. Belem? I 
glanced at him, recognizing a likeness but 
not enough to explain the feeling^ that I had 


seen this man before. Man? Machine? 
Both and either. 

“Is he'alive yet?” I asked. 

“It should take about four days more,” 
one of the. workers answered in English, 
speaking with mechanical precision. He 
sounded as- if he had learned the language 
from records, so accurately that he repro- 
duced even’ the buzz and click of the record- 
ing machine. 

“He is beginning to think and be aKve al- 
ready, but he will not be finished for four 
days. Before then our defenses will have 
gone down, I think. We haven’t enough 
power to maintain the blocking screens ior 
long.” 

“Couldn’t we all go out the way I came 
in?” I asked. 

“ We could not take him along. No, it’s 
impossible. AH we can do is defend ourselves 
as long as we can and hope to finish in time. 
I doubt if we will,” he added casually. 

"The other time a second-stage Mechan- 
droid was attempted,” I said rather tact- 
lessly, “they blew up the whole city, didn’t 
they? Why don’t they do it now?” 

“That was recognized as an error at the 
time,’’ Belem told me. “They have improved 
siege weapons now and they will be curious 
about our devices. We must do the blowing 
up ourselves to prevent them when the time 
comes.” 

“But you’ll go right on working until — ” 

“Naturally.” Belem sounded surprised. 
“There is a demonstrable mathematical 
chance that we may succeed. It would be 
foofish to throw such a chance away. I was 
set a problem, you see, and I must work to 
solve it as long as I am able to move and 
think. This is part of the solution — this sec- 
ond-stage Mechandroid.” 

“I should think,” I said with even less 
tact, “that you’d have a sort of built-in block 
against making anything really dangerous to 
civilization.” 

“So we have, within limits. This creation 
will not be basically destructive. Paynter is 
wrong. Human thinkers are very often 
wrong. The Man-Machine will endanger 
only obsolete things that should be de- 
stroyed. Humans ignore the obvious fact 
that machines can evolve exactly as men can. 
They have evolved. 

“What is a city but a machine? Sooner 
or later it would have been necessary to cre- 
ate a second-stage Mechandroid anyhow. 
The coming problems will be too complex 


m STARTUNG STORIES 


for solution by either humans or Mechan- 
droids. ” 

B elem looked down impassively at the 
serene sleeping face. Then he turned 
and walked away with a purposeful stride. 
I trailed him curiously. We ducked under 
griders and circled groups of workers who 
ignored us, reaching at last a rusty wall that 
opened under Belem’s touch. I looked into 
the time-worn room of matter-transmission 
from which I had first glimpsed this scene. 

On the rusted floor a silver marble lay. 
That was all. 

“It was gold before,” I said stupidly. 
“Simple transmutation. It’s a tricky pat- 
tern of radio-elements.” 

“It’s so small,” I said. 

“Pkk it up.” 

I tried. I could easily slip my fingers 
around it but it wouldn’t buc^. It might 
have been riveted to the floor. 

“Nothing — no known force — has power 
enough to move a negatively-chargedi acti- 
vated matrix of this type,” Belem said 
“The well-known immovable body.” 
“Eh?” 

“You know that paradox. What happens 
vhen an irresistible force meets an immova- 
ble body?” 

“But the existence of one automatically 
negates — ” 

“That’s just my compensatory humor,” 
I said. “I’m scared to death, so I’m joking.” 
He didn’t seem entirely satisfied. Well, 
neither was I. 

I kicked at the thing, and hurt my toes. 

I can’t describe that battle because I didn’t 
4inderstand what was going on. It was prob- 
ably an q)ic. I couldn’t tell. Outside the 
windows the shining wall occasionally spar- 
kled and sometimes bells would ring and the 
needles on gauges would jump wildly. From 
outside our protective shell it was probably 
a more spectacular scene. 

Inside there wasn’t even a feeling of 
tension because the Mechandroids went 
calmly about their duties and showed 
no sign of nervousness. Belem got busy 
on tasks of his own. I wandered around" 
and watched, trying to malce' myself believe 
I was a war correspondent. Sometimes I 
went back and looked into the matter-trans- 
mitter at the silver marble. It just lay there. 

That was the strange, yet obvious point 
about this future — I didn’t understand the 
simplest basic things. I got glimpses of the 


Galaxy in operation, but I didn’t know why 
it worked that way. A Neanderthaler leg- 
man on the PUtdoivn Chronicle might have 
had some similar difficulty in writing a fea- 
ture story about Oak Ridge so his hairy 
readers could understand it. 

Well, with matter-transmission, you could 
live on a planet named South Nowhere, right 
on the edge of the Galaxy at the jumping- 
off-place, and yet be able to reach out your 
hand and pick up a California orange, practi- 
cally fresh off the tree. 

Space didn’t mean anything any more, so 
concepts of thinking based on familiar spatial 
frames of reference had to change. Except, 
perhaps, as far as initial exploration went. 
The first matter -transmitter had to be taken 
bodily to its destination. After that you 
could step into a transmitter on earth and 
step out on South Nowhere. 

So, in a war in this time, the trick was 
to immobilize your opponent. Nail him 
down — as we were nailed down. After that, 
just keep pounding. 

What we needed was a claw-hammer to 
pull up that nail. ^ 

I had seen enough of this future to begin 
thinking Galactically. Stray thoughts crossed 
my mind — random concepts involving yank- 
ing Centaurus II out of its orbit, clamping 
on a tractor-beam — wliat the devil was a 
tractor-beam? — and letting Centaurus pull 
up the silver marble, as a tractor pulls a 
mired car out of the ditch. I mentioned this 
idea to Belem. He said it was a striking bit 
of fantasy but not very practical — and what 
was a tractor-beam ? 

Discouraged, I sat down and thought some 
more. 

“What makes you think the second-stage 
Mechandroid can destroy the nekron?” I 
asked Belem. 

H e KEPT working on a cryptic device 
composed chiefly of vari-colored 
lenses. His placid face never changed. 

“I can only hope so,” he said. “He was 
designed expressly to solve that problem 
and he will have a fifty-five-power brain, 
compared' to my twenty-power one. He’ll be 
a tool — ^an extension of the social me- 
chanism.” 

“With free will?” 

“Yes — within obvious limits. He’ll have 
to fulfil his purpose. He wouldn’t be func- 
tional unless he did that.” 

“What is his purpose? Besides destroying 


THE TIME AXIS 


tbe nekron?” 

“I told you he was an extension. Like 
the specialized tool of your hand.” 

“But I can control my hand.” 

"Not always consciously,” Belem pointed 
out. "If you suddenly found yourself falling 
your hand would seize the nearest grip. Ex- 
tend that parallel a bit farther and imagine 
your hand has a brain of its own. 

“It will do — within its limits — what a 
hand can do best and it would know its po- 
tentialities better than you could. And it 
wouldn’t try to rebel because it’s part of tbe 
unit. The second-stage Mechandroid is a 
better hand for humanity — or a better brain 
in matters of intellect and logic.” 

He turned to his work again, flashing 
lights on and off at what looked like random. 
After a moment he went on speaking. 

“As for the nekronic matter itself, it may 
be symbiotic or vampiric. I wonder. 
Thought and matter are very similar. It may 
be that nekronic matter has the potential 
ability to embody itself provided it finds a 
suitable host. It’s significant that the 
creature itself is superficially manlike. Quite 
possibly it uses whatever prey it feeds on as 
a pattern from which to shape itself.” 

“You think it feeds?” 

“You know as much as I about that. 
Probably more if you were capable of think- 
ing the thing through. We don’t know why 
the embodied nekronic entity kills. The 
most obvious solution is to replenish itself, 
to spread. Even a null-entropy organism 
might do that, in a sort of reverse pattern 
from the norm.” 

He flashed a blue light thoughtfully and 
considered the results. So far as I could 
tell, there had been none but Belem seemed 
to fall into a minor trance for a few minutes, 
considering his work. 

I was watching a rift like black lightning 
that ran across the light-wall outside. A red 
Houd puffed through but the gap healed 
swiftly and the cloud was dissipated. 

Belem twisted a dial, bringing two lenses 
into sharper focus. “Very likely we’ll never 
know,” he said. “We can’t last much longer 
now. A War Council has taken command 
of this planet.” 

“Not Paynter?” 

“He’s one of them. That’s odd. They’ve 
outvoted him three tin^ alreaicJfy on the 
question of attack. He doesn’t want us 
destroyed — which means he doesn’t want 
you destrcyed.” 


65 

“Nice of him,” I said. "After he tried to 
kin me in the Subterrane.” 

“Paralyze, not kill,” Belem corrected 

ILENCE after that, while Belem 
worked and I watched. 

“What would happen if you had time and 
material enough to make another of those 
marbles?” I inquired idly, after a while. 

“A great deal. Both matrix-weapons — 
technically they’re electronic matrices — 
would be negatively charged, and would 
repel each other. Unfortunately we have 
neither time nor equipment for that.” 

“What you need is a hacksaw to split that 
marble in two,” I said. “Then they’d both 
change from immovable bodies to irresistible 
forces and shoot each other out of the galaxy. 
Right?” 

“Wrong. Besides being impossible it 
wouldn’t help. You wouldn’t have two elec- 
tronic matrices of the same pattern as be- 
fore. It’s exactly the same reason why the 
second-stage Mechandroid wouldn’t be 
dangerous to the social body. The whole is 
never larger than the sum of its parts, and 
the sum of the parts always equals the 
whole.” 

“Then you never heard of Banach and 
Tarski,” I said. 

“Who?” 

“Once I was assigned to write a feature 
science story on their experiment. I did 
plenty of research, because I had to find 
human interest in it somewhere and it was 
pure mathematics. The Banach-Tarski para- 
dox, it was called^ — a way of dividing a solid 
into pieces and reassembling them to form 
a solid of different volume.” 

“I should remember that,” Belem said, 
“since I have all your memories. It was 
only theoretical, wasn’t it?” He searched my 
memory. I felt uncomfortable as though, 
under partial anaesthesia, I watched a sur- 
geon investigating my digestive tract. 

“Theoretical, sure,” I said. “But I did 
a repeat on the subject later. It took twenty- 
three years before somebody figured out how 
to aj^ly the trick to a physical solid. I for- 
get the details.” 

“No you don’t,” Belem said, turning from 
his work and staring at me. “You have no 
control over your mind, that’s all. But the 
information is stored there. Apparently I 
di<bi’t get all the details when Paynter 
searched your memories. There’s a name — 
RobiiKon ?” 



6« STARTLING STORIES 


“It could be. I don’t know.” 

His face showed no change but I thought 
I sensed a growing excitement within him. 
“Cortland,” he said, “I want to enter your 
mind again. I think — ” 


CHAPTER XX 
Last Defense 


PPARENTLY he thought I might 
object — not that that would have made 
any difference — for the next thing I knew 
the quicksilver eyes were growing and 

the next instant they had changed and re- 
focused so that I saw them, as it were, be- 
hind my own eyes. I could see the motion- 
less body of Belem standing before me but 
his face was blanker than ever. 

Within my head, be spoke to me. “Re- 
member. It’s all there, in your memory. 
The right associations will recall it. The un- 
conscious never forgets anything. Robinson. 
The University of — ” 

“California,’’ I thought and something 
clicked and swung open and I saw a page 
open before me — a page I had first read 
thousands of years ago — and the fine print 
swam into remembered visibility. 

“ ‘Professor Raphael M. Robinson of the 
University of California now shows that it 
is possible to divide a solid sphere into a 
minimum of five pieces and reassemble them 
to form two spheres of the same size as tlM 
original one. Two of the pieces are used to 
form one of the new spheres and three to 
form the other. 

“ ‘Some of the pieces must necessarily be 
of such complicated ^ncture that it is im- 
possible to assign volume to them. Other- 
wise the sum of the volumes of the five 
pieces would have to be equal both to 
the volume of the original sphere and to the 
sum of the volumes of the two new splreres, 
which is twice as great.’ ” 

That was all. It wasn’t as much as Belem 
would have liked — I could feel his impatience 
and the way he seemed to be shaking my 
mind over for more details but I couldn’t 
give him what I hadn’t got. After awhile the 
metallic mind unlinked from mine and in a 
moment the motionless figure before me 
stirred, turned without a word and began 
making tentative drawings on the corner of 


a chart convenient upon the wall. 

When I asked him questions he told me 
remotely to go away. 

That was how it started. There’s no use 
in my trying to tell you how it ended. I 
didn’t understand. It would be ridiculous 
for me even to pretend I know how it was 
done in concrete fact before my eyes. But 
it was done. 

Not easily. Not quickly. In fact it came 
dangerously close to not being done at all, 
simply because it took so long. 

I was able to watch the first stages of 
Belem’s experiments. He knocked down 
the problem of lenses and lights upon which 
he’d spent so much time and began setting 
up theoretical paradoxes in three dimensions, 
following the Banach-Tarski gecHtietric 
plan. I watched him playing with ghostly 
-spheres and angles of light until my head 
began to ache from Wlowing the changing 
shapes. 

What he was attempting was clearly im- 
possible. 

I wandered away after awhile and watched 
the play of lights outside. The display had 
recently become a lot mcwe spectacular and 
tnore interesting to vratch but that was not 
good. Even I could see that, thtxigh nobody 
would answer my questions. The methodic^ 
machine-men were not panicky but you 
could see they had accelerated their jj^e. 
They were recognizing the need for hurry. 

The second-stage Mechandroid on its 
table had changed, too. The brilliant neural 
webbing above it had simplified. Light ran 
now only in the main channels, letting the 
finer nerve-wires run very pale, but the 
synapse-points glowed like stars cilong the 
major lines. 

And there was a pale glow hanging like a 
cocoon of radiance low over the motionless 
figure. 

I watched little groups of workers cluster 
around it, bending their heads together over 
the table, and I had the impression that they 
were communicating with their new-born 
super-kinsman. I even got the idea that he 
was advising them, for those who left the 
group went directly to work with a fresh 
impetus. 

It was a little like what must go on in a 
hive as the workers cluster around the queen- 
mother. 

They were very definitely working against 
time now — perhaps against hours, even 
minutes. 



THE TIME AXIS 


I T WAS when the black lightning opened 
a second rift in the wall of shielchng 
light that the last galvanic spasm of activity 
before the end stirred the workers to their 
final tasks. 

Another red cloud puffed through the wall 
where the lightning had ripped it but this 
time the breach did not close. Instead, a 
horizontal pillar of red light lengthened 
through the smoke, unfolding straight to- 
ward the laboratory walls. 

It was then that a bdl rang behind me. 
The effect was electrifying upon every 
Mechandroid in the building. Like everyone 
else I turned to stare. Belem was standing 
back from his work-table, a look of smugness 
upon his otherwise expressionless face. 
“This is it,” he said. 

Even the crowd around the neural-web 
tal^ thinned as the workers in the laboratory 
flocked around him to watch. 

He had a sphere about the size of a grape- 
fruit, floating in mid-air above his table. He 
did things to it with quick flashes of light 
that acted exactly like knives, in that it fell 
apart wherever the lights touched, but I got 
the impression that those divisions were 
much less simple than knife-cuts would be. 
The light shivered as it slashed and the cuts 
must have been very complex, dividing 
molecules with a selective precision beyond 
my powers of comprehension. 

The sphere floated apart^ It changed 
rfiape under the lights. I am pretty sure it 
changed shape in four dimensions, because 
after a while I literally could not watch any 
more. The shape did agonizing things to my 
eyes when I tried to focus on it. 

When I heard a long sigh go up simul- 
taneously from the watchers I risked a look 
again. 

There were two spheres floating where 
one had floated before. 

“Amoebas can do it,” I said. “What’s so 
wonderful about reproduction by fission?” 

“Don’t bother me,” Belem said “But get 
ready to leave when I give the word. There 
isn’t much time left.” He cast a worried 
glance at the window. 

All over the enormous room an orderly 
withdrawal was in progress. They had taken 
down the neural webbing over the big table 
and were setting up a lower webbing on the 
table itself, just within the radiation of that 
cocoon of light. I could see now that the 
table was no longer supported on legs but 
floated free of the floor. They were ready to 


67 

move it, obviously, which must mean that 
matter-trananission was about to resume 
operation. 

“Take this tube,” Belem said, “and go 
over to the transmitter. Careful, hold it with 
the blue side up. I’ll be with you in a 
minute.” 

“Even if you can do it again with the 
silver marble,” I remarked, taking the tube, 
“can you be sure you'll be any forrader? 
Nothing much happened when these two 
spheres shaped up.” 

“The marble, as you call it,” Belem said, 
busily unhooking a glass spiral from its base, 
“is in effect an electron now, a negatively 
charged unit. Have you any idea how many 
tons of repulsion exist between cathode-ray 
particles, for in.stance, no matter how far 
apart they may be? 

“You’re about to see a demonstration, 
The degree of repulsion is practically in- 
finite for our purposes. When you get over 
there, open the transmitter door — and himry, 
will you?” 

T he silver marble lay there on the floor 
of the transmitter, dully gleaming in 
the red light from the laboratory. The light 
was red because that cylinder of crimson had 
breached the protective radiations outside 
and was reaching inward, quivering back 
under the assaults of defense-lights, but 
stubbornly gaining yard by yard toward the 
laboratory wall. 

Belem worked methodically, setting up 
his tubes and prisms. The table cocooned 
with bright webbing floated now ^st beside 
the door, ready to go out first when trans- 
mission functioned again. I could see dimly 
the face of the sleeper inside. The serenity 
of that face was impressive in a way I can’t 
describe. 

The second-stage Mechandroid slept, yes, 
but he wasn’t wholly asleep now. The mind 
of the machine was awakening. It was time 
for it to wake. I could feel something in the 
vei7 air that told me what was h^^ning 
behind those impassive, emotionless features. 

The shape of the features disturbed me, 
too. There was that haunting familiarity 
which I had no time now to track down. 
But I knew I had seen it before. 

There wasn’t much time fw speculation. 
I think the laboratory drfenses collapsed all 
at once. I heard no warning but overloaded 
screens suddenly went down with blinding 
soundless flashes between us and the attack- 


STASTUNG STORIES 


68 

ing forces. I think Belem must have been 
dravving heavily on the power-reserves in 
order to finish his experiment in geometric 
paradox. 

He didn’t seem surprised, nor did the 
others, when there was a dazzle of red and 
green brilliance in conflict, streaming like 
colored lightnings through the vast room, 
making the twisted girders stand out in black 
silhouette. One of the Mechandroids at 
Belem’s elbow said something in one of the 
languages of this age which meant nothing 
to me. 

Belem asked him a question. I caught the 
name of Paynter in the answer. 

Belem moved a prism. His voice was 
quick but very calm. And this time as he 
spoke I caught an overtone in the air which 
the others, perhaps, had been realizing for 
some minutes. I can’t say what it was. A 
pressure, a deep, serene wave, a quality of 
newness and difference too intangible to 
name. 

But it was there. After a moment or two 
I knew what it was. 

The sleeper was awake. Not physically 
yet. His body remained helpless in the 
cocoon of light. But the mind was speaking 
to the minds of his creators, a smooth strong 
mind functionirg like perfect machinery 
with a deep hum of power. 

ELEM laid down his tools and turned 
to me, gripped my arm, urged me away 
toward a sloping catwalk that spanned the 
great rooqj. 

“What’s the matter?’’ I asked in be- 
wilderment, following him willy nilly, be- 
cause I could feel the metal of his machine- 
ancestry in that tight grip. “Something 
wrong? Won’t the gadget work?” 

“It will work. You and I are needed 
elsewhere now. The others can handle the 
escape.” 

“But I wanted to watch — ” 

“There is no time. You won’t see the 
demonstration, after all.” 

I looked at him dubiously. There seemed 
to be no threat in his tone, but then there 
never was. 

“What’s happening?” 

“A platoon of men is attacking under 
Paynter. We must htdd them back until the 
matter-transmitter is reactivated. I’m act- 
ing under orders. The second-stage Mechan- 
droid is conscious enough to take charge. 
He told me what to do — look!” 


CHAPTER XXI 
Infection Spreading 


A nd that was when the last defense of 
all went down. There was a blazing 
flash of crimson that seemed to lick every 
comer of the room. It died andi the white-lit 
air trembled a little in its wake. But only 
for an instant. 

Then, from somewhere outside, a spear 
of red light drove at us and, almost con- 
currently, a steel piston, ten feet thick, shot 
out like a battering-ram after it. I had a 
single glimpse of that blank solid-steel muzzle 
rushing forward like a Titan’s fist — then 
it crashed through the wall of the building, 
with a thunderous impact and a shriek of 
torn and twisted metal, and ripped an irresis- 
tible path through the great girders. 

It halted. 

That cylinder of metal must have been 
more than half a mile long. Thirty feet of it 
extended through the riven wall into the 
chamber where we stood. 

The blank muzzle opened like a shutter. 
Through a transparent wall I saw a little 
room banked with intricate control boards, 
and Paynter in a bucket-seat, his eyes 
shielded by darkened lenses, his mouth 
drawn down in a grimace as his hands moved 
swiftly across the panel before him. 

A section of the cylinder dropped away. 
FrcMn its interior came leaping men, hooded 
and armored by light-colored suits of web- 
bing. Each carried' one of the basket-hilted 
paralysis-weapons. 

I risked a look behind me. Far away, 
down a long vista of arched girders, I could 
see the Mechandroids gathered in a little 
group about the floating platfomi on which 
the second-stage Mechandroid lay and I 
thought that quick flashes of light 
were moving there — the same knife-Kke 
stabs of brightness I had seen when Belem 
divided his experimental sphere. 

But the soldiers of Paynter were getting 
dangerously close — more than a score of 
them, inhuman and frightening in their 
hoods and protective suits. 

Deliberately Belem turned his back on 
the soldiers runing toward us and looked 
at me. 

Twice before I had had tliis experience. 



THE TIME AXIS 69 


But it wasn’t a trick you could get used to — 
the quicksilver eyes expanding, rushing for- 
ward, slipping inside your head — and, im- 
possibly, moving into place like supple- 
mentary lenses so that Belem was looking 
out through my own eyes, from within my 
mind. 

I felt his will grip mine with paralyzing 
strength. Perhaps he thought I might resist. 
Certainly I would have, had I known what 
he intended. 

Then he had control of my brain as well 
as my body. Belem’s thought? But they 
were my own thoughts — superimposed, 
directing — 

He was using my mind, cis he might use 
a telegraph-key, to send out a message — a 
summons. 

I had time only to realize zvhat it was 
Belem was calling. There was no time to 
react, to fight the summons — for the answer 
came almost upon the heels of the call. 

From high above the great room I could 
see that answering shadow sweep into sight 
It came out of nowhere, literally out of no- 
where, springing into being and moving 
forward with a speed so blinding I could 
not focus upon it. I had again that instant of 
recognition, of revulsion — that knowledge of 
its burning • speed. 

And then the nova of pure energy ex- 
ploded outward, as it had done so many 
times before, from somewhere in the center 
of my consciousness. 

B ut this time it was different. Never 
before had the thing been deliberately 
summoned. Whatever it was, from wherever 
it came, it had always before struck of its 
own will. Now it struck through mine — 
through Belem’s, speaking with my mind. 
And that gave it a significance and a quality 
of culmination which its coming had never 
had before. This time it meant something. 
This time, perhaps, I would know — 

The shock of energy blinded me. I waited 
for the fading to begin. 

There was no fading. Instead a second 
shock followed close upon the first, then an- 
other and another — wave after rising wave, 
tide upon tide of devouring violence. Noth- 
ing like this had ever happened before. I 
was too sick and shaken with the overloading 
of my nerves, the staggering blows of sen- 
sation that battered me. I could not think or 
reason. I only knew that this time I was lost, 
drowned in the bursting violence. 


It would not cease. It would never cease. 
It would go on forever. . . . 

I saw the shadow of violence fade from a 
face. Across what seemed to be wide dis- 
tances I saw the reflection of unimaginable 
violence ebb. YeS‘ — the mind behind that 
face had known the staggering onrush of in- 
human tides as deeply as my own. 

In the control room of the great steel 
cylinder Paynter met my gaze — and I read 
sick horror in his eyes. 

I could not move. Every nerve in my body 
felt burned out, short-circuited. I could see 
and bear a little ; that was all. I saw Belem 
clambering up into the hollow side of the 
huge piston. 

In a moment he appeared behind Paynter. 
Paynter, I thought, tried to move. His stare 
broke away from mine. But the Mechan- 
droid’s hands darted out, touching Paynter’s 
neck, his head, his spine. Belem spoke a 
word arid took Paynter’s shoulder as the 
latter rose. 

Belem’s quicksilver eyes were no longer 
within my mind, I realized. 

But I wasn’t thinking clearly. 

I had forgotten the armored soldiers. 

Now I saw them. They were quite dead, 
all of them. I saw how they had died. I 
remembered the chain of bursting explosions 
as the killing shadow had swept down from 
above. 

It was gone now — but it had fed well. 

Belem and the silent obedient figure of 
Paynter came toward me. I felt the Me- 
chandroid’s fingers reach out and probe 
deeply into my flesh. There was brief pain, 
then I could move again. But I still could 
not thiiflc very clearly. 

Belem seemed to be listening to a voice I 
couldn’t hear. He said, as if to himself, 
“There isn’t much time — ” and urged both 
of us forward. Now that I turned, I could 
see that the matter-transmission chamber at 
the other end of the room was empty. The 
crowding Mechandroids with their slowly 
waking Sleeper had gone. They had stepped, 
in so many instants, from this place to some 
other planet that might be anywhere at all 
in the immeasurable vastness oi the Galaxy. 

“Come,” Belem said and we moved to- 
ward the matter-transmitter. 

The rusted metal walls shimmered around 
us, faded, vanished. 

Across the dej^hs of space the atoms that 
made us up dispersed, drew out, reintegrated 
agatin. Bright alloy plates shimmered into 


STARTLING STORIES 


70 

being. We had stepped again from one 
world to another. 

ELEM pushed the panel open. We 
stepped out — into a cavern of dusty 

rock. 

On the floor at our feet a little glitter- 
ing tree stood motionless, beside it a flat 
metal sheet with wire bars. Belem sighed 
with satisfaction. 

“I didn’t think they could do it,” he said. 
“Word went out to one of us in the labora- 
tories to get these things replaced but I 
didn’t really think — well, there just isn’t 
much time. Cortland, bring Paynter here, 
please.” 

I obeyed, moving in a curious dreamlike 
state, the aftermath perhaps of that mon- 
strous rapport with the slaying shadow. Be- 
lem was kneeling beside the barred device 
that Dr. Essen had used to create the 
vibratory matrix that had isolated us from 
space. 

“Useless,” he said. “As I half suspected.” 

I looked up at the enclosing walls of stone, 
beyond which my own home planet 
stretched. It was curiously comforting to 
know that the rock overhead and the rock 
underfoot were the native structure of Earth. 
Here, on this uneven floor, my own body had 
fallen to dust. 

I wondered if the drifts in which our feet 
left prints had once been — 

“This is the cave of the time-axis then,” 
I said slowly. “And it’s no good. Not if 
you can’t work the machine Dr. Essen used. 
Is it too complicated even for you, Belem? 
I should have thought — ” 

“That isn’t the problem. It’s comparative- 
ly simple really. The trouble amounts to 
personalized mental mutation. We could 
understand how a thing as simple as a 
Neanderthaler’s battle hammer worked but 
we couldn’t use it — we- don’t have the same 
muscular training and balance. And mental 
habits are far more subtle. 

“An invention, in practical application, 
fits its age and the people of that age. By 
studying this apparatus, I could work back 
to the basic principle and construct some- 
thing similar that would operate in my 
hands. But only Dr. Essen could use the 
device that’s so completely hers. In effect 
it’s an extension of her mind. And we’re in 
a hurry. I’ve had to make other plans.” 

He glanced toward the closed panel of the 
transmitter and before he had finished 


speaking, it began to open. I think there was 
some mental warning which Mechandroids 
could exchange over considerable distances. 
Belem put a restraining hand on my arm as 
a second Mechandroid stepped into the 
cavern. He came directly from some world 
of dust and wind, for his hair was wildly 
blown and a reddish dust shook from his 
garments as he moved. He carried very 
carefully in both hands a milky-white crystal- 
line egg. 

Without a word he came forward, put it 
in Belem’s hands and turned^ back to the 
transmitter. It sighed shut behind him and 
he was gone— back, perhaps, to the wind and 
dust of his unknown world. 

Gingerly Belem laid the crystalline globe 
on the floor between the glass tree and tte 
useless Essen device. 

“This will do what has to be done,” he 
said, looking down' at it. “Give us a 
temporary force-field. It doesn’t tap the 
basic cosmic energies as Dr. Essen’s does 
but I hope it will protect us long enough. 
After the second-stage Mechandroid wakes 
we’ll be safe. He can take over.” 

"And do what?” I asked, a little rebel- 
liously. “Keep us asleep, set up a matrix to 
guard us — sure. And then send us in to the 
future ? Maybe I don’t want to go any more. 
What good could I do there alone? De 
Kalb’s gone. Dr. Essen’s gone. Even Mur- 
ray would have been more help than nobody. 
As it is, I’d rather stay right here. It looks 
like an interesting world, what little I’ve 
managed to see of it. If you hadn’t interfered 
I think I could have got along ■/ery well 
with Paynter.” 

“Except for one thing,” he said calmly. 
“You’re a carrier of the nekronic infection, 
as I think the People of the Face may have 
planned from the beginning. As a spur to 
prevent just what you’ve suggested.” 

“Why are you going, then?” I demanded. 
“It has nothing to do with you.” 

“Yes, it does have. Two things. First — I 
(k)n’t know why I’m going. The order came, 
and I must obey it.” 

“From the second-stage Mechandroid?”' 
I asked incredulously. 

“Yes. The second reason is” — He looked 
up at me over his shoulder. He was kneeling 
to puzzle over the Essen machine, and gave 
me a sudden cool smile. "I go under or- 
ders,” he said. “You go because of the 
nekronic spur. Do you Imow why Paynter 
must go too?” 



THE TIME AXIS 71 


“Because you’ve got hhn hypnotized,” I 
said. “Why else?” 

“Paynter is infected too.” 

GAPED at him. 

“Of coarse he is. Why else did' he 
£a3 to kill you when he knew the danger you 
carried wherever you went ? But suppose he 
had killed you — and the murders went on? 
Tile authorities would have had to look 
further — they would have found Paynter 
himself. So long as you lived you were the 
obvious scapegoat.” 

“An right,” I said slowly. “It adds up. 
Is that the only reason why he has to go with 
ua? Does your second-stage Mechandroid 
care about that?” 

“Of course not.” Belem had turned from 
the mystifying Essen machine and was work- 
ing carefully with the milky-crystal globe 
now, his large fingers moving over it with 
the same clumsy deftness I bad watched so 
often in De Kalb’s identical fingers. 

“Of course not. The real reason is very 
different. You’ve probably guessed it al- 
ready. Do you not know, really, why you 
have trusted me so far ? If your mind had 
put up any real opposition I couldn’t have 
done all I did with it. Don’t you know why 
you and I must go on to the world of the 
Face together — as we first set ont to dot" 

I stood there in the dusty cavern, 'in per- 
fect silence, not surprised to find that I was 
trembling a little as his metal eyes met mine. 
After a long time I said, very softly, in a 
shaken, questioning voice, “De Kalb — De 
Kaib?” 

“I think so,” he said calmly. Then he 
reached out and with one finger stirred the 
heavy dust on the floor. He looked up at me, 
smiling wryly. “De Kalb is there. De Kalb 
is that. But here — ” He struck his head 
a light rap, “Here I think he still lives. 
Latent. In abeyance. But still here.” 

I sat down suddenly, in the dust that may 
once have been Jerry Cortland. I was re- 
membering the sudden oblivion that had 
briefly overtaken all of us who were dupli- 
cates of the sleepers in the cave as those 
original bodies fell apart. 

"There would be no r^son for you to 
go on to the World of the Face alone,” he 
said, “if you went alone. But you won’t. 
You can’t. You never have been alone, have 
you, in this era? Always Topaz — who is 
Dr. Essen, asleep — or Paynter, who is Mur- 
ray, arieep, or I — who am De Kalb — was 


with you. None of us Icnew. All of us have 
been moving along the lines of some pattern 
vaster than we can guess. Only now it 
beings to emerge a little.” 

As I drew a breath to speak the sound of 
the opening panel startled us both. Only 
Paynter, standing motionless in the grip of 
his hypnosis, did not move. My quick start 
was futile but Belem’s two hands covered the 
crystal globe, ready, I think, to activate it 
and throw out the temporary force-field that 
would isolate us from attack— for awhile. 


CHAPTER XXII 
Reunion 


W E WERE both expecting soldiers to 
come pouring from the transmitter. 
But no one came through the c^jen panel. 
Instead, a voice spoke. A woman’s voice, 
cool, clear, level. 

“Ira?” it said. “Mr. Cortland? Colonel 
Murray, are you there?” 

Dr. Essen! I thought. Letta Essen! An 
instant later Topaz came alone across the 
threshold. 

It was Topaz and yet — it was Letta Essen 
too, more clearly than I had ever seen her 
before in the girl’s amazingly adaptable 
features, 

“I expected this,” Belem said with per- 
fect calm. “I didn’t even send for her, I was 
so sure she would have to come. It’s the 
pattern, Cortland. It’s working itself out 
faster and faster now, beyond our control, 
I think. Is she Letta Essen?” 

I nodded in bewilderment. The voice was 
not Dr. Essen’s, of course, for it came from 
the vocal cords of Tc^az, but it was not 
Topaz’s voice either. It was cool, emotion- 
less, nobody’s voice, Dispassion sj^eaking 
aloud. And the face was Topaz’s face but 
changed, different. 

I had .seen the almost fluid mobility 
with which every emotion altered those love- 
ly features but I had not been prepared for a 
change like this. And the ego, the soul, of 
Topaz was sul>merged. A tight, wary blank- 
ness was all that showed now — that and a 
sort of bright alarm. 

“The soldiers!” she was saying a little 
breathlessly now, as she hurried toward us 
across the dust which was her own disinte- 



STARTLING STORIES 


72 

grated body. “They’re following me, Ira? 
It is Ira?” Her eyes were questioning on 
Belem’s face. 

The Mechandroid nodded. “They’re fol- 
lowing you?” he demanded. “How much 
do they know? Never mind — ^you can tell 
us later. Activate your machine^-quickly !” 
And he gestured toward it. 

She dropped to her knees beside the metal 
plate, hesitated, touched it doubtfully. “The 
connections have been changed,” she said. 
“I can put them track in order but”— she 
glanced up — “it may take time.” 

“How long?” 

“Too long.” She looked from face to face, 
a little of Topaz’s facile despair coming 
through the calm. “The soldiers — ” 

Belem’s breath hissed through his teeth. 
We turned, seeing the panel in the wail 
opening again. Bright imifonns gleamed 
through the gap. 

Belem’s hands flashed with blinding speed 
above the crystal egg. Then a tower of 
golden light shot up like a fountain and 
spread out above us. It thinned as it spread, 
came showering down again into an enclos- 
ing hemisphere. Its brightness faded until 
we were lodcing through amber glass at the 
soldiers who came swarming from the trans- 
mitter, more and more with every opening 
and closing of the panel. Their weapons spat 
fire at us. 

A burst of starry light sparkled on the 
amber of our shield and died. Another nova 
flared and faded against the screen. And 
another. 

“We’re safe,” Belem said calmly. “For 
a few days, until the power dies. By then 
the second-stage Mechandroid should waken. 
But meanwhile. Dr. Essen— you had better 
repair your machine if you can.” 

She nodded, the bright curls tumbling. 
Then she rose and stepped carefully around 
the motionless, glittering tree toward the 
milky egg that was projecting our temporary 
salvation. 

“I can’t remember — very clearly,” she 
said. “There was light — and then suddenly 
I knew I was myself — with some memories 
of a girl called Tc^paz.” She frowned. 
“Maybe it would be clearer if — may I see 
your projector, Ira? Belem? Which are 
you, now?” She looked searchingly into his 
face. 

“I am Belem,” the Mechandroid said. 
“Do you know what it was that roused you 
out of the Topaz-state and reawakened the 


Essen mind? We are nearly sure now fh^ 
in the mtwnent the time-axis shell and the 
bodies inside k crumbled, their sleeping 
minds merged with the minds of the physical 
duplicates. Why is not yet known. Why 
the minds of Paynter, Topaz and myself re- 
mained dominant while Cortland’s sub- 
merged the mind of his host is still — ” 

He paused. For Topaz — Dr. Essen— was 
bending above the luminous egg. Now she 
seized it, lifted it high, and with one smooth 
gesture smashed it against the rocky flocw. 

I T WAS Topaz, of course — not Letta 
Essen, never Letta Essen. 

The amber shell above us began to rfft 
and shimmer irrto tatters. Beyond it the 
armed men pressed forward, shouting. A 
lance of hot white light shot prast Belem’s 
head and spattered fire from the rocky wall 
behind him. Topaz laughed, a shrill, high 
sound of pure excitement. 

Then Belem moved. 

He fen to one knee beside the shattered 
globe from which amber light was dying 
swiftly. His hands settled down over it, 
heedless of the sharp cutting edges of the 
broken crystal. And his body began to glow. 

Swiftly the rifted light in the shell above 
us began to mend itself. The amber shining 
spread, met, joined. The armor strength- 
ened, was solid again. 

I could feel the tremendous energy pour- 
ing out of the Mechandroid’s mind and body. 
It made the air quiver inside the hemisphere. 
As a man may suicidally bridge a gap be- 
tween two charged electric wires, so Belem 
was using himself now. I saw him shudder 
as that frightful energy poured through him. 

Paynter, forgotten in the melee, suddenly 
stirred beside us. I saw him take an uncertain 
step forward, then another, the blankness 
facfing from his face. Belem’s mind was 
losing control over his. Released from the 
hypnosis, active now, our enemy — he 
emerged from his paralysis. 

From outside the shell that was our only 
hope the confused shouts of the soldiers 
came thinly. One voice rose above the rest, 
an officer’s voice, full of urgent command. 

“Topaz!” it shouted. “Tc^az — step the 
Mechandroid 1” 

Her quick response made doubly clear 
what had been clear enough before. Sbie was 
wholly their tool. She had never been Letta 
Essen. Their integrators had woj^ed out the 
truth as quickly as the Mechandroids had 


THE TIME AXIS 


fathomed it and Topaz was a ready instru- 
ment to their hands. She was still their most 
dangerous weapon and she had not failed yet. 

I heard her high, clear laughter in re- 
sponse to the call and I whirled in time to 
see her snatch out a tiny, glittering weapon 
exactly like that rubber-lipped paralyzer 
Paynter had once turned upon me. This 
was smaller and it glittered with jewels and 
the flexible ring of its muzzle was fantas- 
tically colored. But it was no toy. I saw 
the lips suck in as she pressed its trigger, 
ready to send out a web of paralyzing force 
upon Belem. 

The Mechandroid neither saw nor heard. 
All his mind was concentrated on keeping 
the force-field active. He was depending 
wholly oh me. 

I flung out an arm just in time to throw 
Topaz off balance. The bright-lipped weapon 
spat out its web, which floated just clear of 
Belem and flared into violent oblivion against 
the amber shell around us. Topaz hissed 
savagely at me and fought to level her 
weapon again at Belem. She was lithe and 
astonishingly strong, a protean shape that 
writhed snakelike in my arms. 

There wasn’t anything I could do about 
Pajmter. He was almost fully awake, and 
reaching half dazedly for the gun at his belt. 
Topaz, twisting furiously, was trying now 
to center her paralyzing weapon on me. 
Above us the shell of force be^n to tatter 
again. There was a limit to Belem’s powers. 

My mind, ranging wildly for an answer, 
stumbled upon the mad thought of re-hypno- 
tizing Paynter. I knew I had not the power 
but — -suddenly my glance fell upon the glit- 
tering little tree at my feet. There in its base 
was the switch I had once seen De Kalb 
press, a thousand years ago. 

After three tries I reached it with my toe. 
Topaz was a furiously writhing burden in 
my arms, almost overbalancing us both. But 
the jeweled branches lighted, began slowly- 
to move. 

“Paynter!” I barked. “Look at that — 
look at it!” 

tie was not yet fully out of his hypnosis. 
He turned, startled, saw the branches that 
were spinning now with a dizzying blur of 
brightness. He grimaced and looked away. 

Recklessly I let go of Topaz with one arm 
to point at the whirling tree. 

"Look!” I yelled insistently. “Paynter, 
look.” 

My own eyes were averted but I could 


73 

see his head turn as he glanced at the hyp- 
notic spanning. His head turned away again, 
slightly — but not his eyes. They stayed fixed, 
focused on the tree. 

Slowly, slowly his head swung back, till 
he stood facing the circling lights. Intelli- 
gence faded from his stare. His hand 
droppjed from his belt. 

Simultaneously I realized that Topaz was 
no longer fighting me. She too was watch- 
ing the tree. 

Hynotized — both of them. 

Paynter said in a dazed voice, “Gsilland 
— Cortland, is that you ? De Kalb ? What’s 
happening?” 

“Murray?” I said, softly, tentatively. I 
knew it was probably a trick and yet — under 
the hypnosis of the tree the submerged mind 
of Murray might be wakening. 

Belem let out a long, shuddering sigh. 
His body slumjjed. And the amber force- 
field about us seemed to run down like water 
and vanished. Across the suddenly cleared 
space the soldiers stared at us, caught for a 
second by surprise. Their eyes sought Payn- 
ter’s. 

But they met Murray’s eyes. “Wait!” he 
barked at them sharply. “Halt!” 

^^NFUSED, they fell back a little. They 
would obey him — for a moment. So 
long as they thought he was Paynter. 

Was he Paynter? 

He turned a bewildered gaze to me, mur- 
muring thickly, “Cortland, what’s happened? 
I’ve been dreaming, haven’t I? Dreaming I 
was a man named Paynter?” 

There was a restless surge among the 
soldiers. They were muttering to their offi- 
cers, uncertain, ready to be swayed one way 
or the other. Paynter — Murray — turned 
back to them. 

“Halt !” he shouted again. “Wait for your 
orders !” 

It worked — ^for awhile. But they would 
not wait long. Commands could not stop 
them from thinking. And I knew that if 
Murray told them to drop their weapxDns 
their indecision would crystallize into dis- 
obedience. 

But the solution was very simple after all. 

A gray light flickered around us, van- 
ished, steadied again. A thin humming be- 
gan. The light seemed to gather ujxjn every 
dust-mote in the air, thickening in veil be- 
yond veil. The soldiers faded into misty 
ghosts. . . . 


74 


STARTLING STORIES 


Belem lifted his head wearily. “We’re all 
here now,” he said. “Courtland, Murray — ” 

The man who had been Paynter nodded 
slowly. 

" — -Dr. Letta Essen — ” 

Only then did I turn my head. Kneeling 
beside the original force-field device was 
Topaz, her fingers flickering over its con- 
trols. 

Not Topaz, I thought. Not now. The 
face was hers, and the body,- but when she 
glanced up and smiled it was Letta Essen’s 
keen gray eyes that met mine. Hypnosis had 
released her, as it had released Murray, 
from the prison of the alien bodies, the alien 
minds. 

“Now I will join you,” Belem said, and 
turned to face the spinning tree. 

There was silence under the dome of gray 
light. 

When the Mechandroid turned he was 
still a man-machine but it was De Kalb who 
looked at us out of the metal eyes. He 
smiled. “Goodbye to Belem,” he said. 
“We’re here again, all of us.” 

***** 

“But why did it happen — why?" Letta 
Eissen spoke with the voice of Topaz but it 
was unmistakably her own mind framing the 
thought and the words. 

“I think I can guess,” De Kalb said, 
through Belem’s lips. “It was no accident 
that stranded us temporarily in this era. We 
set out to fight a battle, the fom* of us against 
the nekron. Well, 1 think we have fought 
that battle. I think what happened was a 
testing-field in which each of us was tried 
and found — useful. Now we go on to the 
final battle.” 

“And the nekronic killer with us,” I said. 

“The killer too. That is part of the pat- 
tern, I think.” 

“But wait a minute,” Murray said. 
“What’s become of this fellow Paynter? 
Where’s Belem? Where’s Topaz? And 
Cortland, were you always yourself?” 

“The others are recessive in our minds, I 
think,” De Kalb said. “Just as once we were 
recessive in theirs. Cortland’s alter ego has 
always been recessive. Only he hasn’t 
changed — except in that he changed bodies, 
as we all did. Why that had to happen I 
don’t know — yet. Remember, Cortland has 
always been our catalyst. When he enters 
the picture things happen!” 


“There’s one thing that isfi*t going to 
happen,” I said. “We can’t get our b^ies 
back, can we ? These we borrowed. Or 
stole, if you want the accurate truth. The 
real owners are — sleeping, maybe. But will 
we ever dare sleep? Will we ever be sure 
we’ll waken as ourselves? Each of us is a 
double mind in a single body now. If we 
come out alive from the world of the Face, 
what’s going to happen then?” 

“We’ll know that,” De Kalb said firmly, 
“when we wake again. We will sleep, Cort- 
land. And whichever ego wakes at the end 
of the world will be the ego that was pre- 
destined to wake.” 

He hesitated briefly. “Now we must go,” 
he said. “Look at the tree, Cortland. Mur- 
ray, Letta — watch the tree. We will know 
the real truth— but later, much, later — when 
we waken at the end of the world. When 
we look into the Face of Ea.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 
The Face 


T ime turned on and on upon its axis 
where we slept. 

Time flowed' like a river, wheeled like a 
sphere, moved like a galaxy through its own 
unimaginable dimensions toward its own 
inexorable ends. Motionless at the heart of 
motion, we slept on. 

I think I dreamed. 

Perhaps it was a dream in which the wa- 
ters of time parted above us like a Red Sea 
parting and, through the walls of water, in- 
quiring faces looked down into mine, 
mouthed words in unknown languages that 
came to me faintly from far away. If it was 
a dream the dream wore thin for an interval 
and I could almost hear them, almost feel 
their hands on me, tugging me awake. 

And then, among them, a deep serene 
powerful command seemed to break and 
through the parted waters of sleep and time 
I looked up dimly into the face I had last 
seen beneath the cocoon of light, stUl in its 
natal slumber. But this time the Man-Ma- 
chine was awake. This time I saw the calm 
quicksilver eyes and heard the calm voice 
running deep with power. 

The eyes met mine. Their command was 
irresistible, and the command was — 


THE TIME AXIS 


Steep. 

The waters closed' over me again and I 
ceased to exist 

* * * * * 

As drea'ms repeat themselves in inter- 
rupted slumber it seemed to me that this 
dream returned. The quiet of turning time 
wore thin and I looked up again into in- 
quisitive faces seen from far away, felt in- 
quisitive hands plucking me awake. But 
these were strange faces, so strange I was 
startled a little out of my oblivion and all 
but sat up in my shock as I saw them. 

Above the clustering misshapen heads the 
great calm' figure of the Man-Machine 
loomed. I knew him by his eyes and by the 
deep humming tide of power that flowed 
from his mind to mine, silencing the chatter, 
healing over the breach in time. But I 
would not have known him, I think, except 
for that. 

For long eons had passed in that measure- 
less interval. The serene face was changing. 
But the tide pf his command had not changed 
at all. He still said to me, “Sleep,” and I 
slept again. 

Once more the dream returned. This time 
it was not faces that looked down at me but 
small, sharp, twinkling lights, insistent, 
deeply troubling. And as I roused enough 
to turn my head aside, trying to escape thepi, 
I had one glimpse of quicksilver eyes be- 
neath calm brows, one remote echo of a voice 
that rolled like thunder. The lights vanished 
like candle-flames in a hurricane. 

The thunder was so deep that it had tangi- 
ble volume, rolled from a tangible source. I 
knew how mighty the source was. I knew, 
from that glimpse of the quicksilver eyes, 
how tremendously they had changed. The 
Man-Machine was no longer the size and 
shape of man. The face had changed, the 
functions had changed, the size was too vast 
for my dazed mind to comprehend. 

“Sleep,” the thunder commanded through 
diminishing vistas of space and time. And 
this time I sank into depths so profound that 
no dreams could plumb them. 

***** 

I had thought that, when the time came, 
I would have much to write about the Face 
of Ea, that stands in the twilight of the 
world’s end. But now, when I try, the words 


75 

are hard to find. I have seen things no 
human being ever saw before. But the para- 
dox is that it can’t be communicated. Be- 
tween experience and inexperience lies a 
gulf that can be bridged in onte way and 
one way only. 

You would have to go, as we went, to 
time’s end and stand before the Face of Ea. 
Then I could tell you what I saw — and then 
I wouldn’t need to tell you, for you would 
know. 

* * * * * 

I awoke. 

The long, long sleep drained slowly out of 
my mind, like water receding down a sloping 
beach, leaving me stranded in a place I had 
never seen before. This was the time-axis — 
but it had changed. I looked with blank eyes 
around the dome that closed us in, a thin, 
gray dome through which red light filtered. 
We were no longer underground. I suppose 
the mountains had worn away, grain by 
grain, while we slept. 

M URRAY’S was the first face I saw. 

I thought to myself, “Is it Murray 
this time or is it Paynter?’’ I watched him 
sit up on the gray floor, rubbing his face 
dazedly, his flesh pink in that filtering light. 
And I never knew whether it was Murray 
or Paynter. 

Beyond him DeKalb looked at me with 
metallic eyes, smiled and sat up. And Topaz 
lifted her bright curls from the dusty floor 
and turned swiftly, from face to face, a 
glance that combined Letta Essen and her- 
self in indissoluble union. 

“Are we there?” she asked in a soft voice. 
For answer P gestured toward the gray 
dome that shut us in, the world outside the 
dome. 

As far as we could see, in every direction 
but one, the world lay flat and gray with 
a surface very familiar to us all in one way 
or another. A glazed grayness, solid, 
through which veins of rosy color, like curled 
hair, twined at random. The world was all 
nekronic matter now — except for one other 
thing. 

We looked up at the Face of Ea, and we 
were silent. 

As we looked, the dome above us shim- 
mered, thinned, was gone. Down upon us 
the red twilight poured unbroken. It was 
faintly warm upon the skin. A very faint 


76 STARTLING STORIES 


wind blew past us and I can remember still 
the strange hollow odors it carried, wholly 
unlike anything I had ever scented before 
from winds blowing over open country. 

We did not speak again, any of us. The 
time for talk had passed and a higher au- 
thority from that moment took all initiative 
out of our hands. We looked up at the 
Face of Ea. 

How can I tell you what it was like — 
now? You know how I saw it in the Record, 
when the images of this same scene recre- 
ated themselves in my mind and I looked up 
from this same spot, in a faraway age, into 
the towering Face. Even then I saw it as a 
Face far transcending the human, reflecting 
experiences unknown to my era and my 
world, complex beyond any possible human 
guessing. 

When I looked up now and saw the vast 
cliffside rising above the gray nekronic plain, 
it was not as a Face I saw it. Not at first. 
It was too complex to be recognizable. It 
was shaped into equations so far beyond my 
comprehension that I could not read them 
in tenns of a human likeness. 

I suppose a Piltdown man, gazing from 
under his eye-ridges at the face of a Toynbee 
or an Einstein would realize only very re- 
motely that this was. the face of an evolved 
memter of his own species. And there were 
greater gulfs than that between the Face 
and me. 

You will have guessed already what like- 
ness it was that I finally recognized, I 
should have guessed too. It was not very 
surprising, really. Belem had given me the 
clue. A city, he had told me, was simply 
a machine for human living, an extension of 
the Mechandroid organism. And this city, 
which was the Face — 

It looked down at us with a vast calm gaze, 
the same gaze that had brooded over our 
slumbers while time turned on its axis where 
we slept. The eyes that had once been quick- 
silver metal were very different now but I 
knew that gaze. The voice that had once run 
deeper and deeper with the volume of its 
power was a voice no longer, for it had 
passed beyond the need for a voice. The 
thing that had once been a Man-Machine 
had grown, developed, changed, synthesized 
with all of human living as the millennia went 
by. 

Its functions had broadened to encom- 
pass every aspect of the civilizations through 
which it passed. 


I UNDERSTOOD very litfle of the com- 
plex symbiosis which had taken place, 
and I can convey only a very small part of 
what I understood. For mankind had 
changed too. Perhaps love and hate and 
fear survived but not in the forms we know. 
Perhaps human features were not so differ- 
ent as we imagined. Perhaps, through the 
streets and .plazas of the city which had be- 
gun as a Man-Machine and was now the 
cradle of the surviving race, men and wom- 
en like ourselves really did move still. 

I’m not sure. I walked those streets. But 
I am still not sure among what crowds I 
walked. 

I’ve said the Face no longer needed a 
voice. This is why. In the old days I sup- 
pose the Man-Machine would have said, 
“Come,” when it wanted us nearer. Now in 
effect it said, “Come” — and we came. But 
not on foot. Not under our own directions. 

A whole segment of unnecessary, primi- 
tive activities was simply eliminated. There 
was no need for the clumsy human mecha- 
nisms to hear the summons, comprehend it, 
consider it, debate obeying, decide to com- 
ply, set muscles in motion and trudge across 
the plain. 

Instead, the Face issued its voiceless com- 
mand — and there was a sort of vortex in the 
red twilight air between the cliffside and our- 
selves. Smoothly, gently, inexorably, we 
were drawn up along that spinning of the 
air, seeing the gray earth fall away beneath 
ns and then slide backward with blurring 
swiftness. The Face grew startlingly larger, 
too large to see as a whole, large and near 
and very clear. 

We lost sight of the tremendous serene 
brow, of the vast smooth chin, of the great 
downward slope of the nose, of the cheeks 
etched with experiences which no human 
and no machine could ever have known 
separately. 

Walls of rock rushed at us, opened, sucked 
us in. 

What did I see? I wish I could tell you. I 
can make useless sketches in the air with 
both hands, trying to show how the spiral 
streets sloped and how the blurred house- 
fronts slid past. But if I did you would pic- 
ture ordinary house-fronts and a street that 
curved but was like any street you know. 
And these were too different to describe. 

It may be that the street really did move 
with all its strange shapely houses. I have 
an idea that the whole interior of the city 


THE TIME AXIS 7T 


was actually in constant motion, as a ma- 
chine might be, and that if motion ceased the 
machine would cease too, the city and the 
race of man. 

But I can tell you this much. Ideas blew 
through that city like puffs of smoke through 
an industrial town. They brushed my mind 
and were gone, leaving only bewildering 
fr^ments in their wake. Sometimes they 
brushed two of us at once and we had in- 
credible glimpses into one another’s minds 
wherever the idea touched, evoking mutual 
memories, interlocking thoughts like rings 
that spread in water. 

De Kalb had said, long ago, that these 
men were gods. He was right. They were 
far beyond any concept the men of my day 
had ever dreamed of for his gods. We walked 
through their city, were brushed by their 
thoughts, breathed the air of their streets, 
but we never saw them. 

They were there. They were all around 
us. I am perfectly sure of that. I didn’t see 
them. I didn’t feel or hear them. But I 
knew they were there as surely as you know 
the chair in which you sit now has a back 
upon which you are leaning, though you 
won’t see it unless you turn. 

I had constantly the odd feeling that if I 
could turn I might cojne face to face with 
any man of the city I chose. But I wasviot 
capable of turning in the necessary direction, 
which would probably have been through a 
dimension we know nothing of. 

I wish I could have seen them. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
Battling the Nekron 


T he gusts of thought blew thicker and 
faster around us as we were drawn 
up the spiral. Our minds linked in impos- 
sible chords and discords as impossible ideas 
struck responses from us all. 

Then the light failed us. Perhaps our 
sight failed us. I think we were drawn 
through a rather long space of solid wall, like 
a locked doorway which only this vortex 
could open for material things. 

When we could see again we were in a 
bare and emfAy room. The shape of it was 
indescribable b^ause of the extensions along 
which it reached. I was reminded a little 


the corridor down which Belem had guided 
me toward the Subterrane of the middle 
future. Geometry, blindingly confused in 
patterns of inverted planes. 

And then the room around us spoke di- 
rectly, in the very air that pressed upon our 
minds. The Face of Ea spoke. 

I had heard that voice before, if voice you 
could call it. The Man-Machine who 
guarded our age-long slumbers had said, 
“Sleep — sleep,” in this same voice, growing 
deeper, calmer, less human as the aeons 
passed. Now it was the voice and the mind 
of the Man-Machine but immeasurably al- 
tered, incomprehensibly more complex. 

“You have seen my first beginning,” the 
Face of Ea said. “You and I have come to- 
gether to this place at the end of our planet’s 
life. I have watched over your sleep for a 
purpose. You are my weapons now. The 
nekron can never be destroyed. 

“But with your help it can be excised 
out of normal space, normal time. For that 
I summoned you. For that I guided your 
journeying in time. Think and you will un- 
derstand.” 

I believe the same knowledge flowed 
through the minds of my companions in the 
moment of timeless revelation that came to 
me. In a series of small, clear pictures I saw 
the manlike, killing creature that was the 
nekron, touching me as it swooped through 
oscillating time, becoming part human by 
the touch, running rampant through the 
worlds of humanity. 

“Because of its release and its attacks,” 
the voice of Ea said, “it is part human now. 
You have learned to fight it. To save your- 
selves and us you must finish the fight. The 
nekron cannot be touched’ — except by you. 
But we must somehow excise it out of the 
universe, not only in space but in time. We 
must cut back throi^h time, so that we di- 
vide and alter the past as well as the pres- 
ent.” 

Pictures flashed again through our minds 
but I at least was unable to understand. I 
saw the worlds of the galaxy turning on their 
axes and, more cloudily, I saw time turning 
also, linked to the turning worlds each by its 
own axis as tangible as the planets them- 
selves to that inner vision. Very dimly I saw 
something that flashed a little as Belem’s 
severing lights had flashed when the two 
electronic matrices split in duplicates from 
the original. 

“I need a wedge, a blade, to split the 


STARTUNG STORIES 


It 

nekronic infection from normal space and 
time,” the voice went on. “You are my 
weapons. Do you understand the task be- 
fore us? 

“Belem learned the way, through the link- 
age of the knowledge of two eras. Now, on 
an infinitely larger scale, we must accomplish 
the same cleaving of two spheres. And each 
must remain equal in every way to the one 
original or the balance of the universe will 
be destroyed. 

“They will differ — if we prevail — in one 
way only. One will be nekronic matter, one 
will be normal. Never in contact anywhere 
through all time and space. Do you under- 
stand your task? 

“You must fight as my weapons against 
the nekronic universe. Together we must 
cleave the universe itself in two.” 

I F YOU can imagine a sharp toed made 
sentient, you may guess a httle of how 
what followed seemed to us, who were so 
integral a part of the tremendous conflict, the 
ultimate destruction. 

First, the voice died. 

Then there was movement past me and 
the room seemed to slip into darkness — or 
was it I that moved ? Those comers of non- 
Euclidian shape were vortices that swept us 
apart. We four were the component parts 
of an exploding nova that shot outward 
through space, through time. Around me 
I saw stars, moving very swiftly, and I was 
alone and there was an inexplicable changing 
everywhere. 

I knew then that I was moving through 
time, not a continuous movement but an 
oscillation, a vibration that swung me back 
and forth like a jjendulum through a period 
of a few seconds. As the nekronic being 
moved. 

There was further motion — not my own — 
around me. I could see only the vibrating 
stars but I knew through senses without 
name that my companions were not far away 
now. Paynter was a strong harsh relentless 
ego within reach of my mind, though all I 
could see was stars beyond stars, flaring into 
sight as my vision penetrated farther. 

Belem was De Kalb and De Kalb was 
Belem, strongly egocentric, brilliant as the 
stars, a double mind that had shared a single 
body and learned to work with a single pur- 
pose in the dark levels below the conscious 
will. Topaz was Letta Essen, douWed and 
doubly armed. 


There was a rushing shadow before me. 
Swifter and swifter, larger and larger, rush- 
ing upon me as I swept forward through 
the stars. I saw it, and then it was upon me 
in the same instant. The gap was bridged, 
the leap made. And I — I changed in size. I 
was as large as the shadow. 

I touched it. 

A fiery burning flared out around us and 
died instantly and the creature flashed into 
clear outline. Outline only, for it had no 
features and never did have, only the vague 
likeness to humanity it had drawn from the 
minds of its human hosts. Perhaps it was nty 
own will, perhaps the will of the godlike 
hand that wield^ me, that made me close 
with that solid shadow. 

Where and how I gripped it I do not 
know. Perhaps I never really touched it at 
all. Perhaps it was merely will against will. 
An I could feel now was a furious deadly 
pressure against which I must exert the ut- 
most of my strength in a direction I could 
not understand. Mental energy, pure will, 
perhaps simply the maintenance of temporal 
reality — how does the chisel know what force 
it exerts? 

Somewhere I felt the enemy give back — ■ 
not at any point where I met him. He weak- 
ened bri^y far off in — space — time? How 
can I even guess? Perhaps we were hem- 
ming him in all around, temporally as well as 
physically, for some other human tool, De 
Kalb or Paynter, Letta Essen or Belem — 
had cut deeply into the resisting substance 
that was the nekronic universe. 

The dark was a flashing, coruscating whirl 
of suns that blazed white. Tracks of fire 
burned in curves as stars rolled across that 
white vault. I knew how swiftly I must be 
moving in time. 

With a jolt I was halted, pressed back. 
The blind, featureless face of the Adversary 
loomed larger, blotting out half the white 
heavens. Back and back I fell — 

A nd then suddenly there was support 
all around me, a merging of .familiar 
minds with mine. It was deeper than the 
nearness I had felt before. We were drawn 
together, we four. Our minds touched and 
blended and became a single larger entity, a 
whole that yet preserved the individuality of 
us all. The cold clear thoughts of Belem and 
De Kalb lighted my mind like the facets of 
brilliance shot from a diamond. The blind 
white-hot violence of Murray and Paynter, 


THE TIME AXIS 


the Infinite resource that was Topaz and 
Letta Essen. 

Now the Adversary shifted its grip. I 
felt it give a little before our combined pres- 
sure. And we seemed to be viewing it from 
several points at once — in time. Cross-bear- 
ings in time itself. But how? 

I knew the answer very clearly, in one 
flash. 

We were the chosen we^Mns, the doubly 
sharpened blade. That was why my own 
body and the bodies of the rest had crumbled 
into dust when the time-axis chamber was 
shattered. Two identical matrices can not 
exist in the same space-time, but two identi- 
cal matrices had been necessary to forge this 
weapon that was ourselves. 

No mind fixed and conditioned to one 
sector in time could pin down the nekron. 
It tock a larger concept, a binocular view 
from two points in time. And the Face of 
Ea had doubled our striking power when 
it doubled our minds in bodies that were 
basically identical with the ones we wore 
when we were born. 

We had fought this battle before in 
miniature. In the world of the middle future 
we had been tempered to this final task. 
The nekron was fixed and trapped here — 
it could no longer evade us through time. 
Our strangely multiple mind could fix and 
focus upon it. 

But tte battle was yet to come. 

With reckless, single-minded violence that 
multiple mind smashed out at the nekronic 
Adversary. As Paynter had driven the 
metal ram no harder than he drove himself 
against the fortress barrier, as Harrison 
Murray had so often hurled himself in stub- 
born, blind fury against foes tangible and in- 
tangible— so the weapon that was ourselves 
crashed against the black nekronic force 
striving to destroy us. 

Somehow, somewhere, in some hidden 
weakness of ourselves, it sought and found 
a flaw. It drove us back. Its own incredible 
power smashed through warping channels 
of space and time at our welded minds. 

If a single one of those inconceivable bolts 
of destruction had struck us it might have 
been the finish for us all. But none struck. 
For Topaz was part of the weapon which 
was ourselves and all Topaz’s memories of 
infinite cleverness, infinitely adaptable life — 
with Letta Essen’s cool, watchful mind to 
guide her. 

Oh, T(q>az was adaptable — ^that had been 


79 

her purpose and her goal in society. She had 
incredible mental, emotional, muscular con- 
trol and she reacted instinctively, automati- 
cally to any outside threat. Now I saw her 
talents’ ultimate extension as — somehow, in 
a black star-blazing gulf that yet embodied 
the whole universe — we dodged and whirled 
and shifted so that none of those nekronic 
assaults quite smashed home. 

Then, abruptly, we were falling. There 
wa^ neither up nor down, but a frightful, 
abysmal vertigo that sucked us with impos- 
sible acceleration into the deeps below the 
universe itself. We were drawn into the 
black nighted heart of the nekron — its soul 
and center — and life itself receded to a point 
of infinity and was shut wholly out, away 
from us. If we had size it must have 
changed. If we had warmth and life it must 
have frozen instantly in all minds. In its 
last defense the nekron itself absorbed us. 


CHAPTER XXV 
Return Voyage 


L uckily I cannot remember that last 
horror very clearly. 

It was I who saved us from that. 

This was my purpose. It was the plan 
from the beginning. That was why I had 
been allowed from the start to keep my own 
memories intact. For I was the anchor man 
at the end of the chain, the solid rock and the 
lifeline extending beyond the shore of sanity 
and logic and the monstrous, non-matter 
maelstrom engulfing the others. 

They had needed their double minds to 
meet and fight the nekron, to carry the battle 
to its own grounds. But my purpose was to 
anchor their line. I could feel them losing 
touch with all familiar things, feel the dark 
destroying silence of the nekron closing 
them in. 

It closed about me too but not completely. 
It could not shut out my memories. I had 
a singleness of mind that made a chain too 
strong to snap. I remembered my own 
world, my own time, with a clarity unim- 
paired by double memories. All the small 
things that are changeless realities came back 
to me in one strong pouring tide. 

The little things that mean nothing alone 
— things like firelight moving on the walls of 


80 STABll.INe STORIES 


an old room, the smell of freshly -cut grass 
at twiK^t, the sharp fragrance of printer’s 
ink, the heart-shaking thunder of a flight of 
planes moving in formation overhead, the 
taste of cold sweet spring-water gushing 
from a mountainside. 

I remembered Earth. 

So I woke them out of the dead emptiness 
of the nekron’s heart. Their minds clung to 
mine and mine clung to the lifeline of my 
own world, my own time, my own indestruc- 
tible memories. 

Last of all De Kalb struck — with Belem’s 
mind locked into his. 

We were in the nekron’s heart now. We 
had been admitted to its most vulnerable 
spot. Once before Belem had done some- 
thing very like this — when he joined his 
mind with mine and summoned the nekronic 
killer to defeat Paynter’s men. 

Now in the nekron’s very citadel, its in- 
nermost heart — lie gripped our minds closer 
together. He forced them until they were 
one indeed. 

He opened that gigantic ultimate mind to 
the nekron ! 

Two of the finest brains of two cultures 
guided us then — Belem, inhuman, emotion- 
less, machine-bred, half-human — and De 
Kalb, with all his brilliance and his humanity 
balancing Belem’s cold logic. Behind these 
two-in-one, the rest of us — a single unit now. 

Paynter and Murray — hammer and anvil ! 

Topaz and Letta Essen — incomparably 
resourceful, evading the counter-attack. 

I with my single mind, holding fast to the 
solidity of the normal universe, standing like 
a wall behind the others, holding open the 
gates in that wall through which we had 
come, through which the power of the Face 
of Ea poured to help us. 

The power of the nekron flowed through 
us, channeled by Belem and De Kalb. It 
emptied, drained like a falling ocean into 
us. But we were not vulnerable, now. It 
could not — ^feed-^upon us. 

Water, changing to steam, must expand, 
find room to accommodate its physical 
change. The process must be completed. 
But this monstrous change could not be 
completed in any way normal to the nekron. 
It had not drained its force into us by choice 
— Belem had drawn and channeled it. 

Now its normal release was blocked. 

We were battered back beneath the on- 
slaught of that terribly concentrated power. 
But we held. Somehow we held — the mul- 


tiple minds of two civilizations, chosen and 
tempered by the last, greatest science of all. 

Then — it exploded. 

There is no other word. It expanded 
tremendously, through us and beyond us, 
and that frightful concentration of alien force 
was gone. The disincarnated, dissolved units 
of the nekron expanded — seeds of the death 
beyond death — but helpless in this single 
moment beyond time, no Icaiger a functioning 
unit capable of planned action. 

We could never kill it— but we had it 
helpless for the first instant in the history of 
the universe. One moment outside time was 
all we had — ^but one moment was enough. 

From somewhere solidly at our backs, 
came the titanic pressure of the Face of Ea, 
an intoxicating flood of pure power flowing 
through us. One mighty biust of energy — 
it was enough. 

The burning suns reeled around us again. 
They blurred — time blurred and ^ace and 
the incredible infinite complexity of the uni- 
verse shuddered and was divided. 

That was the end. 

T he suns flickered out around us. We 
were sinking into a dimness that swal- 
lowed up our senses as the darkness swal- 
lowed the light. But I could not quite let go. 
There was trouble somewhere— a question 
unanswered. 

“Have you finished with us now?” I 
wondered in the darkness. “Are you sending 
us back, double-minded, into worlds where 
only a single body can dwell? It was yon 
who destroyed our bodies — ” 

The great calm Face that was the com- 
posite of so many faces took shape before my 
mind’s eye, perhaps tangibly before us in 
the thickening dark. The great, quiet voice 
said, “If Belem could divide matrices and I 
universes, do you need to doubt that your 
bodies can be divided too and each be dupli- ' 
cated exactly from a single matrix? It was 
done once, in Eden, before the first civiliza- 
tion rose. It shall be done again, by the 
power of this last civilization of all. Sjeep, 
now — sleep.” 

In the dimness that followed upon the 
darkening of the suns and the stilling of the 
voice I remembered Genesis, and Adam’s 
words. Bone of my bones, flesh of my 
flesh. . . . 

The Face that watched drew further and 
further away, grew tinier and tinier in 
red-lit distances down a vista of diminishing 


THE imE AXIS 


temporal lanes, , . . 

I knew now tiiat we must have swung far 
off around that other pole of time, the begin- 
ning, the wellspring of life and space and 
duration. We must have moved forward 
along the unchanging temporal axis toward 
our own world. 

In which there was no nekron now, had 
never been, never would be. 

But there were not even dreams in this 
■ slumber to hint at the stations of that 
journey. 

* * * * * 

So we returned. 

So w^ woke. 

It was Topaz whose eyes met mine when 
I sat up dizzily after that tremendous n^ht- 
mare and found the rough walls, of the cavern 
intact around us. Topaz? No— -and yet not 
Letta Essen either. She smiled and it was 
Topaz’s smile — but the long, long aeons had 
changed her. 

Letta Essen’s slumbering ego in the 
doubled body of the girl Topaz had wrought 
subtle alterations, pulling back that flexible 
flesh into a more fitting body for the woman 
who had been Letta Essen. It was an older 
and wiser Topaz, a younger L,etta Essen, 
who met my first dazed glance when I 
awoke. 

Murray was sitting up dizzily. De Kalb 
had already risen and was trying the flash- 
light that lay in the entry to our cavern, his 
face bewildered. I knew why. It seemed 
incredible that the battery stould still be 
working after such millennia. 

Only no millenniums had passed. We had 
been asleep no time at all as time is counted 
in this world. 

We hardly spoke. We were still too 
stunned for clear thinking — it seemed only 
a moment ago that we had last looked into 
the Face of Ea. Unsteadily we made our 
way out of the cave. The low slanting sun- 
light of a summer evening still lay across 
the wooded mountain. 

Instinctively I looked for the white build- 
ing of the Kerry transmitter that opened 
upon the farthest worlds of the galaxy — but 
that was still a thousand years away. The 
mountains stretched in unbroken forests to 
the horizon. 

At the foot of the slope, near the place 
where Murray’s plane still stood awaiting 
us, was the cabin where De Kalb had lived 


81 

long ago — months ago, perhaps, as we count 
time here but aeons had passed just the 
same — when this cavern was first dug out of 
the mountainside. 

De Kalb unlocked the doof. The cabin 
was musty from long disuse but we didn’t 
care. Oddly enough we needed sleep more 
than anything else in the world. Oddly, 
because we had just now risen from a sleep 
of countless millions of years. 

♦ * ♦ * ♦ 

So that’s the story. 

And now you know why I can say — and 
prove — that the whole thing never happened. 
This isn’t my world, now. Not any more. 
Not the world I left. This is a world in 
which no nekronic flash leaped from a box 
that Ira De Kalb opened and dropped to 
his hearthstone to infect the world, De Kalb 
and me. All that did happen once, in an- 
other world that hasn’t existed since the 
four of us, a doubled weapon wielded by the 
Face of Ea, wrought the cleaving apart of 
two universes. 

Imponderable forces shifted when that 
cleavage took place. You and I know noth- 
ing about it, for it happened far beyond the 
perceptions of any sentient creature. But it 
happened. Oh yes, it happened. 

Funny, how important the little changes 
are. It’s so hard to get used to the absence 
of so much I used to take for granted. And 
there are so many new things too, things 
that weren’t there when I went away. No- 
body knows that except the four of us, of 
course. Everybody thinks these things have 
always been as they are now. 

Well, it’s all right as a world — maybe. 

B ut not as a world for me. Here I’ve 
always been on that roller-coaster, 
snatching as things rush by. Maybe I’d do 
the same in any world. You never can tell 
till you try. 

So I’m going to try. 

There are still sleepers in that cavern 
where the time-axis turns, you know. If De 
Kalb had looked deeper when he first 
brought out our images under ultra-violet, 
he’d have seen more than we ever guessed, 
at the time. He’d have seen more than our 
doubled images, still asleep, waiting for the 
world of the middle future which is the 
final station in their round-trip through time. 
Paynter, ‘Belem, Topaz are sleeping there. 


STARTLING STORIES 


82 

And so am I. And I mean myself, Jerry 
Cortland — twinned. 

You see, I’ve looked. And I’m there. The 
other fellow, the one who came up the hill 
from the Kerry transmitter and blacked out 
and received my dominant mind, is asleep 
of course, waiting for his ovra time. But 
beside him is — Jerry Cortland. Two of us. 
Double images. 

You realize what that means? 

I’m going forward. I know — because I 
went. It was a wonderful world they had. 
I want to see more of it. I want to wake up 
in a time when the race of man is spreading 
through the galaxy, leaping across the gulfs 
between the stars, opening the gates to all 
the worlds. I want to and I will. 

But I’ll never see Topaz again — unless 
I’m luckier than I expect to be. I’ll never 
see Belem or Paynter or the world where 
they’ll wake — finding it changed too, I sup- 
pose, and a little bewildering, as mine is now. 

The trouble is, two identical matrices can’t 
exist in the same time. And that other fellow 
has priority. It’s his world, his time. He’ll 
wake with the others and go out. I’ll sleep 
on until the way is clear. That means, (rf 
course, until he dies. 

I wish I knew more about him. He had 
no record in the vast files of the galactic 
government. He was dressed in ragged 
clothing when I saw him. That indicates 


he’s some wanderer of the outland planets, 
living a dangerous life — if he goes back to it. 
He may not. Waking with Paynter, Belem, 
Topaz, he may be drawn into another kind 
of career entirely. I’ll know someday. But 
not until he’s dead. Not until I wake again. 

And when I wake, who knows how many 
years will have elapsed since Topaz stepped 
out of the time-axis into her own world 
again? She may be an old woman before 
I see her. She may be only a few years ma- 
tured. She may teve been fifty years dead. 
Perhaps I may never be sure. You see, I 
don’t even know her name. 

She was Topaz that week in which I 
wakened. Next week, and the week after 
and the year beyond that — do you think any 
records are kept of the whims of a girl like 
Topaz? Not even she wiU remember by the 
time I wake, if she’s alive then. Time moves 
too fast for that. 

Well, ah this belongs to the future. And 
so do I. Even before the cosmic cleavage 
altered all history I was a misfit in this 
civilization. And now it just isn’t my world 
anymore. I don’t belong here. So I thiidc 
I’ll take my chances in that other place, 
where I won’t have to get used to the little 
things that keep bothering me here and 
bother nobody but me — 

Like Washington being the capital of Uie 
United States — now! 



Read **The Story of Rod CantreW* in this isme—lhea, you 
have an idea of what is in store for you in 

THE BLACK GALAXY 

A Cerniftete Retd CantreU Newel 

MURRAY LEINSTER 


FEATURED IN OUR NEXT ISSUE! 


D. MacDONAUD 



LAW 


JOItN 



the Sun shtoii^ 
six-pointed star 






'BbIKb i 

in 

Ilk. 




^ never tkou^kt muck a kout tke frontier of ike itarA 

until, in 1959, ^ met ^oun^ ^ok nn^ f^ritcka 


1 RATHER imagine that I am quite mad. 
Nothing spectacular, you under- 
stand. Nothing calling for restraint, or 
shock therapy. I can live on, dangerous to no 
one but myself. 

This beach house at La Jolla is comfort- 
able. At night I sit on the rocks and watch 
the distant stars and think of Jc4mny. He 
probably wouldn’t like the way I look now. 


My fingernails are cracked and broken and 
there are streaks of gray in my blonde hair. 
I no longer use makeup. Last night I looked 
at myself in the mirror and my eyes were 
dead. 

It was then that I decided that it might 
help me to write all this down. I have no 
idea what I’ll do with it. 

You .see, T shared Johnny’s dreams. 

83 





STARTLING STORIES 


84 

And now I know that those dreams are 
no longer possible. I wonder if he learned 
how impossible they were in the few sec- 
onds before his flaming death. 

There have always been people like John- 
ny and me. For a thousand years mankind 
has looked at the stars and thought of reach- 
ing them. The stars were to be the new fron- 
tier, the new worlds on which mankind could 
expand and find the full promise of the human 
soul. 

I never thought much about it until I met 
Johnny. Five years ago. My name is Carol 
Adlar. At that time I was a government clerk 
working in the offices at the rocket station 
in Arizona. It was 1959. The year before 
the atomic drive was perfected. 

Johnny Pritchard. I figured him out, I 
thought. A good-looking boy with dark hair 
and a careless grin and a swagger. That’s all 
I saw in the beginning. The hot sun blazed 
down on the rocks and the evenings were cool 
and clear. 

There were a lot of boys like Johnny at 
the rocket station — ^transferred from Air 
Corps work. Volunteers. You couldn’t order 
a man off the surface of the earth in a rocket. 

The heart is ever cautious. Johnny Prit- 
chard began to hang around ray desk, a warm 
look in his eyes. I was as cool as I could be. 
You don’t give your heart to a man who. 
soars up at the tip of a comet plume. But 
I did. 

I told myself that I would go out with him 
one evening and I would be so cool to him 
that it would cure him and he would stop 
bothering me. I expected him to drive me 
to the city in his little car. Instead we drove 
only five miles from the compound, parked 
on the brow of a hill looking across the 
moon-silvered rock and sand. 

A t first I was defensive, until I found 
that all he wanted to do was to talk. 
He talked about the stars. He talked in a 
low voice that was somehow tense with his 
visions. I found out that first evening that 
he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t merely 
one of those young men with perfect coor- 
dination and high courage. Johnny had in 
him the blood of pioneers. And his frontier 
was the stars. 

“You see, Carol,’’ he said, “I didn’t know 
a darn thing about the upstairs at the time 
of my transfer. I guess I don’t know much 
right now. Less, probably than the young- 
est astronomer or ohvsicist on the base. But 


I’m learning. I spend every minute I can 
spare studying about it. Carol, I’m going 
upstairs some day. Right out into space. 
And I want to know about it. I want to know 
all about it. 

“We’ve made a pretty general mess of this 
planet. I sort of figure that the powers-that- 
be planned it that way, They said, ‘We’ll give 
this puny little fella called man a chance to 
mess up one planet and mess it up good. But 
we’ll let him slowly learn how to travel to 
another. Then, by the time he can migrate, 
he will be smart enough to turn the next 
planet into the sort of a deal we wanted him 
to have in the beginning. A happy world 
with no wars, no disease, no starvation.’ ” 

I should have said something flip at that 
point, but the words weren’t in me. Like a 
fool, I asked him questions about the galaxies, 
about the distant stars. We drove slowly 
back. The next day he loaned me two of his 
books. Within a week I had caught his 
fervor, his sense of dedication. 

After that it was, of course, too late. 

All persons in love have dreams. This 
was ours. Johnny would be at the controls 
of one of the first intei-planetary rockets. He 
would return to me and then we would be- 
come one of the first couples to become colo- 
nists for the new world. 

Silly, wasn’t it? 

He told me of the problems that would 
be solved with that first interplanetary flight. 
They would take instruments far enough out 
into space so that triangulation could solve 
that tiresome bickering among the physicists 
and astronomers about the theory of the ex- 
ploding universe as against the theory of 
“tired light’’ from the- distant galaxies. 

And now I am the only person in the world 
who can solve that problem. Oh, the others 
will find the answer soon enough. And then 
they, too, can go quietly mad. 

'They will find out that for years they have 
been in the position of the man at the table 
with his fingers almost touching the sugar 
bowl and who asks why there isn’t any sugar 
on the table. 

That year was the most perfect year of my 
life. 

“When are you going to marry me, John- 
ny ?’’ I asked him. 

“This is so sudden,” he said, laughing. 
Then he sobered. “Just as soon as I come 
back from the first one, honey. It isn’t fair 
any other way. Don’t you see ?” 

I saw with my mind, but not with niy 


FLAW 85 


heart. We exchanged rings. All very senti- 
mental. He gave me a diamond and I gave 
him my father’s ring, the one that was sent 
home to my mother and me when Dad was 
killed in Burma in World War II. It fit him 
and he liked it. It was a star ruby in a 
heavy silver setting. The star was perfect, 
but by looking closely into the stone«you 
could see the flaws. Two dark little dots and 
a tiny curved line which together gave the 
look of a small and smiling face. 

With his arm around me, with the cool 
night air of Arizona touching our faces, we 
looked up at the sky and talked of the home 
we would make millions of miles away. 

Childish, wasn’t it ? 

Last night after looking in the mirror, I 
walked down to the rocks. The Government 
money was given tp me when Johnny didn’t 
come back. It is enough. It will last until I 
die and I hope it will not be too long before 
I die. 

The sea, washing the rocks, asked me the 
soft, constant question. “Why ? Why ? Why ?” 
I looked at the sky. The answer was not 
there. 

Fourteen months after I met Johnny, a 
crew of two in the Destiny I made the fa- 
mous circuit of the moon and landed safely. 
Johnny was not one of them. He had hoped 
to be. 

“A test run,’’ he called it. The first step 
up the long flight of stairs. 

You certainly remember the headlines 
given that flight of Destiny I. Even the New 
York Times broke out a new and larger type 
face for the headlines. Korby and Sweeny 
became the heros of the entire world. 

The world was confident, then. The inter- 
vening years have shaken that confidence. 
But the world does not know yet. I think 
some suspect, but they do not know. Only 
I know for a certainty. And I, of course, 
am quite mad. I know that now. 

Call it a broken heart— or broken dreams. 

J OHNNY was selected for Destiny II. 

After he told me and after the tears 
came, partly from fear, partly from the 
threat of loneliness, he held me tightly and 
kissed my eyes. I had not known that the 
flight of Destiny II, if successful, would take 
fourteen months. The fourteen months were 
to include a circuit of Mars and a return to 
the takeoff point. Fourteen months before 
I would see him again. Fourteen months 
before I would feel his arms around me. 


A crew of four. The famous Korby and 
Sweeny, plus Anthony Marinetta and my 
Johnny. Each morning when I went to. work 
I could see the vast silver ship on the horizon, 
the early sun glinting on the blunt nose. 
Johnny’s ship. 

Those last five months before takeoff were 
like the five months of life ahead of a prison- 
er facing execution. And Johnny’s training 
was so intensified after his selection that I 
couldn’t see him as often as before. 

We were young and we were in love and 
we made our inevitable mistake. At least 
we called it a mistake. Now I know that it 
wasn’t, because Johnny didn’t come back. 

With the usual sense of guilt we planned 
to be married, and then reverted to our orig- 
inal plan. I would wait for him. Nothing 
could go wrong. 

Takeoff was in the cold dawn of a Febru- 
ary morning. I stood in the crowd beside a 
girl who worked in the same office. I held 
her arm. She carried the bruises for over a 
week. 

The silver hull seemed to merge with the 
gray of the dawn. The crowd was silent. 
At last there was the blinding, blue-white 
flare of the jets, the stately lift into the air, 
the moment when Destiny II seemed to hang 
motionless fifty feet in the air, and then the 
accelerating blast that arrowed it up and up 
into the dark-gray sky where a few stars 
still shone. I walked on leaden legs back 
to the administration building and sat 
slumped at my desk, my mouth dry, my eyes 
hot and burning. 

The last faint radio signal came in three 
hours later. 

“All well. See you next year.” 

From then on there would be fourteen 
months of silence. 

I stqjpose that in a way I becanae accus- 
tomed to it. 

I was numb, apathetic, stupefied. They 
would probably have got rid of me had they 
not known how it was between Johnny and 
me. I wouldn’t have blamed them. Each 
morning I saw the silver form of Destiny III 
taking shape near where Destiny II had 
taken off. The brash young men made the 
same jokes, gave the office girls the same 
line of chatter. 

But they didn’t bother me. Word had got 
around. 

I found a friend. The young wife of Tony 
Marinetta. We spent hours tellir^ each other 
in subtle ways that everything would ccune 


88 STARTLING STOREES 


out all right. 

I remember one night when Marge grinned 
and said : - 

“Well anyway, Carol, nobody has ever 
had their men go quite so far away.” 

There is something helpless about thinking 
of the distance between two people in the 
form of millions of miles. 

After I listened to the sea l^lst night, I 
walked slowly back up the steep path to this 
beach house. When I clicked the lights on 
Johnny looked at me out of the silver frame 
on my writing desk. His eyes are on me as 
I write this. They are happy and confident 
eyes. I am almost glad that he didn’t live to 
find out. 

The fourteen months were like one single 
revolution of a gigantic Ferris whed. You 
start at the top of the wheel, and through 
seven months the w'heel carries you slowly 
down into the darkness and the fear. Then, 
after you are at your lowest point, the wheel 
slowly starts to carry you b^k up into the 
light. 

Somewhere in space I knew that Johnny 
looked at the small screen built into the con- 
trol panel and saw the small bright sphere of 
earth and thought of me. I knew all during 
that fourteen months that he wasn’t dead. 
If he had died, no mater how many million 
miles away from me, I would have known it 
in the instant of his dying. 

The world forgets quickly. The world had 
pushed Destiny II off the surface of con- 
sciousness a few months after takeoff. Two 
months before the estimated date of return, 
it began to creep back into the papers and 
onto the telescreens of the world. 

Work had stopped on Destiny III. The re- 
port of the four crewmen might give a clue 
to alterations in the interior. 

It was odd the way I felt. As though I had 
been frozen under the transparent ice of a 
small lake. Spring was coming and the ice 
grew thinner. j 

Each night I went to sleep thinking of 
Johnny driving down through the sky toward 
me at almost incalculable speed. Closer, 
closer, ever closer. 

It was five weeks before the date when 
they were due to return. I was asleep in 
the barracks-like building assigned to the un- 
married women of the base. 

The great thud and jar woke me op and 
through the window I saw the night sky 
darkening in the afterglow of some brilliant 
light. 


W E gathered by the windows and talked 
for a long time about what it could 
have been. It was in all of our minds that 
it could have been the return of Destiny II, 
but we didn't put it into words, because no 
safe landing could have resulted in that 
deathly thud. 

W«th Jhe lights out again, I tried to sleep. 
I reach^ out into the night sky with my 
heart, trying to contact Johnny. 

And the sky was empty. 

I sat up suddenly, my lips numb, my eyes 
staring. No. It was imagination. It was 
illusion. JiAnny was still alive. Of course. 
But when I composed myself for sleep it 
was as though dirges were softly playing. 
In all the universe there was no living entity 
called Johnny Pritchard. Nowhere. 

The telescreens were busy the next morn- 
ing and I saw the shape of fear. An alert 
operator had caught the fast shape as it had 
slammed flaming down through the atmos- 
phere to land fbrty miles from the base in de- 
serted country making a crater a half-mile 
across. 

“It is believed that the object was a me- 
teor.” the voice of the announcer said. 
“Radar screens picked up the image and it 
is now known that it was far too large to be 
the Destiny II arriving ahead of schedule.” 

It was then that I took a deep breath. But 
the relief was not real. I was only kidding 
myself. It was as though I waf; in the midst 
of a dream of terror and could, not think of 
magic words to cause the spell to ceace. 

After breakfast I was ill. 

The meteor had hit with suirh impact that 
the heat generated had fused the sand. Scien- 
tific instruments proved that the mass of the 
meteor itself, nine hundred feet under the 
surface was largely metallic. The telescreens 
began to prattle about invaders from an alien 
planet. And the big telescopes scanned the 
heavens for the first signs of the returning 
Destiny II. 

The thought began as a small spot, glowing 
in some deep part of my mind. I knew that 
I had to cross the forty miles between the 
base and the crater. But I did not know why 
I had to cross it. I did not know why I 
had to stand at the Hp of the crater and watch 
the recovery operations. I felt like a sub- 
ject under post-hypnotic influence — com- 
pelled to do something without knowing the 
reason. But compelled, nevertheless. 

One of the physicists took me to the crater 
in one of the base helicopters after I had 


FtAW 


made the request of him in such a way that 
he could not refuse. 

Eleven days after the meteor had fallen, 
I stood on the lip of the crater and looked 
down into the heart of it to where the vast 
shaft had been sunk to the meteor itself. 
Dr. Rawlins handed me his binoculars and 
I watched the mouth of the shaft. 

Men working down in the shaft had cut 
away large pieces of the body of the meteor 
and some of them had been hauled out and 
trucked away. They were blackened and mis- 
shapen masses of fused metal. 

I watched the mouth of the shaft until my 
eyes ached and until the young physicist 
shifted restlessly and kept glancing at his 
watch and at the sun sinking toward the west. 
When he asked to borrow the binoculars, I 
gave them up reluctantly. I could hear the 
distant throb of the hoist motors. Something 
was coming up the shaft. 

Dr. Rawlins made a sudden exclamation. 
I looked at the mouth of the shaft. The sun 
shone with red fire on something large. It 
dwarfed the men who stood near it. 

Rudely I snatched the binoculars from Dr. 
Rawlins and looked, knowing even as I 
lifted them to my eyes what I would see. 

Because at that moment I knew the answer 
to something that the astronomers and physi- 
cists had been bickering about for many 
years. There is no expanding universe. There 
is no tired light. 

As I sit here at my writing desk, I can 
imagine how it was during those last few 
seconds. The earth looming up in the screen 
on the instrument panel, but not nearly large 
enough. Not large enough at cdl. Incredulity, 
then because of the error in size, the sudden 
application of the nose jets. Too late. Fire 
and oblivion and a thud that shook the earth 


87 

for hundreds of miles. 

No one else knows what I know. Maybe 
soon they will guess. And then there will be 
an end to the proud dreams of migration to 
other worlds. We are trapped here. There 
will be no other worlds for us. We have made 
a mess of this planet, and it is something 
that we cannot leave behind us. We must 
stay here and clean it up as best we can. 

Maybe a few of them already know. May- 
be they have guessed. Maybe they guessed, 
as I did, on the basis of the single object 
that was brought up out of that shaJEt on that 
bright, cold afternoon. 

Y es, I saw the sun shining on the six- 
pointed star. With the binoculars I 
looked into the heart of it and saw the two 
dots and a curved line that made the flaws 
look like a smiling face. A ruby the size of a 
bungalow. 

There is no expanding universe. There is 
no “tired light.” There is only a Solar sys- 
tem that, due to an unknown influence, is 
constantly shrinking. 

For a little time the Destiny II avoided that 
influence. That is why they arrived too soon, 
why they couldn’t avoid the crash, and why 
I am quite mad. 

The ruby was the size of a bungalow, but 
it was, of course, quite unchanged. It was 
I and my world that had shrunk. 

If Johnny had landed safely, I would be 
able to walk about on the palm of his hand. 
It is a good thing that he died. 

And it will not be long before I die also. 
The sea whispers softly against the rocks 
a hundred yards from the steps of my beach 
house. 

And Destiny III has not yet returned. 

It is due in three months. 



COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE 


The Magnificent Failure 

The Second in a Series on the Conquest of Space 

R£N£ LaFAY£TT£ 


THE STORY OF ROD 


E very schoolboy knows, now, that 
Rod Cantrell was the first man on 
Mars. He was also the first man on 
.Venus, and Calypso, and Neptune VIII, and 
he led the expedition which colonized Vega 
II, which was the first permanent human 
colony on a planet other than Earth. Rod 
Cantrell is a famous man — so famous for his 
space pioneering that very few people re- 
. member that it all really came about because 
of the revolt of the Total State against the 
Earth Government. 

Most people have forgotten that revolt al- 
together. The history books have so many 
triumphs of man’s conquest of the stars to 
record that bad news of olden days tends to 
be crowded out. But there was a time when 
civilization as we know it was in very great 
danger indeed. And this is the story oi Rod 
Cantrell at that time : 

The beginning of the revolt doesn’t mat- 
ter. It had been the subject of underground 
planning for 'a hundred years, among the sur- 
vivors and descendents of a fanatical cult 
believing in totalitarianism. And then, one 
day, defensive neutron-screens leaped sky- 
ward around a certain part of Europe, and 
all communication with the rest of the world 
was broken, and there was a week of seeming 


chaos and confusicm behind the curtain of 
lethal radiation. 

Then a boastful and arrogant manifesto 
came out. It demanded the surrender of the 
Earth Government to the rulers of a so-called 
Total State, who were declared to be a new, 
superior, and quite irresistible order of men. 

Earth Government air-fleets roared to the 
attack — and crashed in screaming dives as 
they hit the neutron-screens. Then tides of 
shimmering, flowing death poured outward 
from the borders marked by the screens, and 
wherever they reached, all living things died, 
and presently the screens moved out and the 
tides flowed on again. 

It was very bad, but within weeks the 
Earth Government scientists found a way to 
counter that tidal death. They found a trick 
or two which were helpful against the 
screens, and they found a way to neutralize 
the radar-ghosts which for a time let the 
Total State air-fleets roam secure from radar 
detection. Then there were magnetic flares 
which threatened to incapacitate all the ma- 
chines Earth Government armies depended 
on. They had to be beaten, too. 

S OON the Earth Government techni- 
cians began to bring out their own new 


Super-seientht Jtigg planned to enslave the tcorld with his new force-field 
torpedo, but you cem*t enslave those who love freedom more than life Us^fl 



88 






STARTLING STORIES 


90 

devices. There were robots which conld 
not be killed by Total State radiations. They 
did enormon.s damage before they cottW be 
crippled. There were rockets which arched 
beyond the atmosphere and dived do-^Yn be- 
hind the neutron -screens. There were oth- 
ers. But the war was almost a stalemate of 
destruction until Pittsburgh was wiped out. 

Rod Cantrell was then a technician, G2A 
grade, and he was flying a new type of jet- 
plane over Pittsburgh when disaster struck. 
It was a singularly quiet and undramatic oc- 
currence. It involved no fireworks. It did 
not affect a single one of the delicate instru- 
ments on the jet-plane’s instrument-board. 
Rod Cantrell was right above the city when 
it was destroyed, and he didn’t see it or know 
anything about it until he happened to look 
down. 

It was an unusually bright, clear day and 
the city stretched for sjuawling miles below 
him. It straddled its river and overflowed 
the nearby hills in the sunshine. It was 
clean and crisp and brightly glowing in the 
middle of a perfect day. 

Then, without any warning, the city 
simply w'asn’t there any longer. It vanished 
between two heart-beats. In its place was a 
monstrous hole, three miles across and a mile 
and a half deep. And there was no violence, 
no tumult, no indication of where) the city 
and some tens of cubic miles of rock and 
earth had vanished to. There was no burst 
of energy of any sort. One instant there 
was a city, and the next there was a hole 
more gigantic than had ever before been 
created by men. And that was all. 

Three days later there was still no expla- 
nation. A river poured down the edge of the 
incredible chasm, and a sizable lake was 
forming at its bottom. Helicopters were 
still examining the cleanly-sheared-off bed- 
rock, looking for radio-activity, signs of 
fusion, or some sort of clue as to what had 
happened. But there wasn’t even the begin- 
ning of comprehension. 

Four days later, Rod Cantrell was shot 
down over the Total State lines. The disap- 
pearance of Pittsburgh was almost certainly 
a Total State trick, but there was no cer- 
tainty even of that. Still, Rod had vokm- 
teered for a suicide mission to try to destroy 
the Total State research laboratories frcwn 
which the new weapon — if it was that — 
had certainly come. Also, there were some 
new devices that needed to be tested in ac- 
tion. 


His plane, it was believed, should be proof 
against the anti-catalyst beam that had rein- 
forced the neutron-screens as Total State de- 
fenses. But something else hit him, his plane 
dived Kke a plummet for earth, and Rod 
was so busy sending l>ack instrument-read- 
ings for a clue to the new weapon and 
making sure all his secret devices were 
melted past reconstruction that he failed to 
make sure that his ship would land nose- 
first. So it hit in a swooping crash, he was 
thrown clear as the plane went up in flames. 
He was captured alive, tiiough unconscious. 

It was days later when Tot^ State guards 
marched him out of the Prisoner Interrogar 
tion Center in which he’d regained con- 
sciotisness. 

When he reached the open air it was deep 
twilight. He was handcuffed to one guard 
on his right side and another cm his left, and 
four other guards with Wasters tramped two 
paces behind. 

He thought he was headed for gas-cham- 
bers or perhaps for a slave-labor factory to 
be worked to death. But his guards marched 
him almost half a mile through nearly empty 
streets in the new-fallen night, a^ then 
turned and marched him up long and stately 
steps. There were bright lights inside the 
building, and suddenly he knew where he 
was being taken. To the research-laboratory 
headquarters of the Total State. 

At the realization. Rod Cantrell’s inwards 
seemed to dissolve into a churning mass and 
he went deathly sick. Not at the certainty of 
death — he expected that — but because he 
was a technician, grade G2A, and it was 
treason for him to be alive in the hands of 
the enemy. And he knew what he could ex- 
pect. 

There were salutes. Passwords. Written 
orders for his delivery here. If there had 
been the faintest chance for him to force his 
guards to kill him, he’d have seized it in- 
stantly. The robot psychometers at Prisoner 
Interrogation had somehow turned him up as 
a technician when they performed the grisly 
mathematics which normally determined 
whether a prisoner should be gassed or sent 
to a slave-labor factory. 

H e could expect to be handed over to 
psychologists, now, who would crack 
his brain as they might crack a nut, and turn 
him into a blank-faced automaton who would 
answer any and every question wdiich was 
asked him about the secret military devices 


THE STORY OF ROD CANTEEIX 


of his army. And the balance of success in 
battle was so precariously poised that any- 
thing might upset it. His treason in falling 
alive into enemy hands might mean disaster 
to the Earth Government. 

His guards marched him down a long cor- 
ridor. A turn to the right. A turn to the 
left. There were bright lights everywhere 
and innumerable barriers to pass. Then 
came a dgpr and a vast hall with cords hang- 
ing by dozens from featureless spots on the 
wall and something torpedo-shaped and glit- 
tering in the center of the floor. There was 
a desk and an easy chair. A small man with 
a disproportionately large head sat luxurious- 
ly in the easy chair, smoking a cigar. He re- 
garded Rod with humorous intentness, and 
then nodded to the guards. 

“There are rings on the floor,” he said 
placidly. “Shackle him to them.” 

Two guards came up and held Rod’s right 
arm fast. Two others held his left. They 
removed the handcuffs. They shackled him 
to rings fastened to bolts sunk in the floor. 
As they let go his arms. Rod made a savage 
and murderous attempt to seize a guard and 
force the others to kill him to save the 
guard’s life. But they were prepared for 
such an attempt. He failed. 

The guards retired. The small, big- 
headed man smiled tolerantly at Rod who 
glared back with raging, defiant eyes, as he 
swayed at his shackles. 

“You are impatient,” he said reprovingly. 
“You should wait to hear what I intend to 
do with you. Would you like to be released 
and sent home?” 

Rod snarled. As a precaution, he must 
try to make the psychometers seem mistaken, 
and to appear stupid and intractable. He 
bent and examined his leg-irons furiously. 
The little man cocked his head on one side 
and watched brightly until Rod stood up, his 
nostrils distended. 

“You are chained fast,” said the little 
man amiably. “Perhaps you will listen? I 
am Jugg. Have you heard of me?” 

Rod growled. Of course he had heard of 
JugR- Jugg was the one man in the Total 
State of whom the rest of the world was 
honestly afraid. In a war of science, scien- 
tists were weapons, and before the war Jugg 
had been considered the greatest scientist on 
Earth. Undoubtedly he had devised the 
neutron-screens and the death-tide and the 
magnetic flares' and most — at least — of the 
weapons which still made the Total State 


91 

formidable and might make it invincible. 
Jugg had created the weapons which had 
made the revolt possilfle — and might make it 
successful. 

“Sure I’ve heard of you,” snapped Rod. 
“So what?” 

“That is good!” said Jugg almost happily. 
“Now, there is something we wish your lead- 
ers to know. I, Jugg, have made a great 
discovery. It is probably the most splendid 
achievement of the mind of man. Already 
we have used it. You know what happened 
to Pittsburgh, in your country?” 

Rod did not answer, directly. He only 
snarled again. 

“Ah! I see that you know!” Jugg rubbed 
his hands. “But you do not understand! 
So I will tell you. We of the Total State 
can destroy the earth if we choose. But we 
prefer to rule it So it appears that we 
must explain to our enemies the utter hope- 
lessness of resisting us. When they have 
no hope, they will submit.” 

Rod Cantrell knew otherwise. The de- 
struction of Pittsburgh had no explanation, 
in the world beyond the Total State. But if 
there were, actually, only a choice between 
submission and destruction, a good deal of 
the outside world would choose destruction. 

“It is to be your mission,” explained Jugg 
benevolently, “to convince your people of 
their helplessness. You will serve the Total 
State by saving us some hundreds of millions 
of slave-laborers whom otherwise we would 
have to destroy.” 

“I think,” said Rod, “you’ve picked the. 
wrong man.” 

UT Judd only beamed. 

“I asked for someone with technical 
ability and high intelligence,” he explained. 
“The psychometers said you had both. We 
of the Total State would not have risked an 
intelligent man in combat ! But it serves us. 
I shall give you the theory of our new 
weapon, I shall convince you that the theory 
is also a fact, and I shall return you to your 
Headquarters to explain that submission to 
us is inevitable. We may have to destroy 
other cities to bear out your tale — we expect 
to — but it may not be needful to exterminate 
all of humanity outside our borders. We 
would deplore that!” he added jovially. 

“I,” said Rod savagely, “wouldn’t deplore 
the extermination of everyone within your 
borders !” 

Jiigs: chuckled. 



92 STARTLING STORIES 


“That is the normal hatred of the inferior 
for his superior ; the hatred of a wild animal 
for the trapper who will presently subdue it. 
But our psychologists are already working 
upon the problem .of conditioning subject 
populations to abject obedience; it is a prob- 
lem which has replaced their former task of 
offensive psychological war. The change was 
made when I revealed the discovery which is 
certainly the greatest achievement of the 
human brain.” 

Rod Cantrell regarded him with tight- 
fipped defiance, his ankles chained to rings 
set in the floor of this highly civilized hall. 

“I have devised,” said Jugg proudly, “a 
force-field' which will actually do what other 
men have not even conceived of. I have 
proved that objects remain in our three-di- 
mensional universe only because they are 
linked to each other. They are held here by 
their gravitational and magnetic and electro- 
static fields, which exist even in the empti- 
ness between island universes. And when 
those fields are shut off — when an object has 
no longer any link to the rest of our uni- 
verse — it vanishes into another set of dimen- 
sions or an other-space in which there are not 
even stars. And I have devised a force-field 
which cuts those links to the universe we 
know !” 

Rod Cantrell snarled at him. 

“What’s this? Comedy? Or are you 
crazy ?” 

Jugg grinned. 

“You pretend, eh? The psychometers 
said you were" intelligent. I think you under- 
stand me! You can see that if a man were 
no longer anchored to the earth ty gravita- 
tion, he would drift off into space, into the 
frigid vacuum between the earth and mocoi. 
And if he were not linked to the sun by its 
magnetic field, he would drift away into the 
emj^iness between the stars. Not so? And 
if the stars themselves did not hold him — 
withered and frozen and lifeless in the void — 
he would vanish utterly. He would go into 
some other universe, swirling into. a strange 
time-stream perhaps, ceasing to exist as a 
bubble bursts. In a strange space, a strange 
time, a strange cosmos in which he might be 
the only object in hundreds of millions of 
light-years of distance.” Jugg grinned more 
widely. “That is where your Pittsburgh has 
gone.” 

He pointed to the glistening metallic ob- 
ject in the center of the hall. It was metallic 
and shaped like a torpedo some twenty feet 


long. Afterward, Rod Cantrell was to won- 
der why the torpedo shape had been chosen. 

“Tliat is a duplicate of the device which 
destroyed Pittsburgh,” said Jugg amiably. 
“In it there is a generator of my force-field, 
which cuts off every effect and every field 
that other matter can produce. It severs 
every link between itself and the earth and 
sun and stars. It becomes no longer a part 
of our universe. It enters a set of dimensions 
so alien and so unthinkable to us humans 
that we would become gibbering maniacs 
from its very strangeness and horror. And 
ciU because of my force-field, which your 
stupid scientists have not even conceived 
of!” 

Rod Cantrell’s eyes narrowed momen- 
tarily. A field to cut off gravitation and 
magnetism and electrostatic stress was not so 
novel as Jugg seemed to think. Jugg’s de- 
vices — especially his magnetic flare — had 
made necessary some way of neutralizing 
magnetism. The tidal death had been checked 
by a projected field-of-force which cancelled 
out electrostatic stress. 

A nd as a matter of course the generators 
had been designed to be adjustable. 
They could combat any other type of space- 
strain that Jugg might seek to utilize. But 
the Earth Government’s generators had been 
designed to handle single space-effects, ac- 
cording to need. There had been no thought 
of trying to nullify all space-strains at once. 

It would have seemed a self-defeating idea 
for the very reason Jugg boasted of — that 
such a generator would no longer be held to 
earth or sun or stars, and could never be 
held in position on a revolving planet be- 
cause there could be no way to anchor it in 
place. Any foundation, any support, would 
be sheared through like the rocky founda- 
tion under Pittsburgh. . . . 

But Rod Cantrell sneered at Jugg, who 
was the only man the rest of the world ac- 
tually feared. 

“You’re talking nonsense,” he said scorn- 
fully. “Suppose you did make a field like 
that! You couldn’t do anything with it ! It 
couldn’t be controlled ! ” 

Jugg chuckled. 

“Ah. now you reveal the intelligence the 
psychometers reported! You are quite right. 
A field which puts its generator in another 
set of dimensions, or in another universe 
from which it cannot return — that would be 
useless. But suppose I make, in addition, a 


THE STORY OF ROD CANTRELL 93 


force which is not found in nature ? Suppose 
I make a tractor-beam which I do not allow 
my force-field to nullify, and use it as an 
anchor? Suppose my generator goes into 
another set of dimensions, but remains 
anchored even in that other-space to some 
object on this earth? Suppose I make a 
tractor-beam which goes through my force- 
field and draws my generator to the city of 
Pittsburgh ?” 

Rod Cantrell sweated suddenly. It was 
cold sweat. A field to neutralize all the nor- 
mal effects of matter was a possibility, to be 
sure. And if such a field surrounded a gen- 
erator, the generator and anything else inside 
the field would vanish from human ken — as 
Pittsburgh had vanished ! And if a generator 
and a tractor-beam apparatus could be built 
into a torpedo . . . 

"If you could do that,” said Rod Cantrell 
scornfully— but he felt icy cold all over — 
"you could focus your tractor beam on Mars, 
and turn on your force-field, and you’d be 
drawn to Mars through other-space. You’d 
have a space-drive. But you haven’t!” 

Jugg chuckled. 

“You are clever, my friend! You pre- 
tend to disbelieve, but I see the sweat glis- 
tening on your skin I Space-drive, eh ? Ah, 
yes ! We shall make space-drives, to be 
sure ! But first we make this planet ours. 
First we make all other men recognize the 
sublimity of our blood, the truth of our right 
to rule. We make all other races our sub- 
jects. And then we colonize the stars and 
make all the universe our own possession ! 
But first — you understand now how we de- 
stroyed Pittsburgh?” 

Rod Cantrell shook his head. He did 
know, now, but he would not admit it. Some- 
thing was comdng, presently. Jugg would 
not have had an ordinary prisoner brought 
to him and shackled to slave-rings in the 
floor, merely to lecture him upon the great- 
ness of the Total State. 

“I took a torpedo,” said Jugg happily. 
“And I set its tractor-beam so that all of the 
city of Pittsburgh was linked to my torpedo 
by its attraction. And then I set a mechani- 
cal device to turn on the force-field which 
shut off all other links of all other matter to 
my torpedo — and I stood back. You see?” 

Rod Cantrell swore thickly. 

"And,” said Jugg joyfully, “and as I and 
all the cosmos except Pittsburgh ceased to 
have cuiy link to my torpedo, it vanished 
from sight and all possibility of detection. 


It was in an other-space which is parallel to 
our own, but which seems to be empty. Yet 
it was still drawn toward Pittsburgh in this 
universe and this space, so that it passed 
through other-space until it reached Pitts- 
burgh in this space. 

“And since Pittsburgh was linked to my 
torpedo, it could enter the force-field which 
nothing else could enter. And it did. But 
once it had entered, the rest of the cosmos 
had no link to it. So Pittsburgh ceased to 
exist in the dimensions we know. Perhaps 
— I’m not sure — its stay in that other uni- 
verse is not pennanent. Conceivably, just 
as matter in my force-field seems to fall of 
its own accord into that other universe, so it 
may fall back into our universe when the 
generator wears out or stops. But where? 
Ah, that is a matter for speculation ! Per- 
haps ten million light-years from Earth. 
Surely no human being will ever know!” 

M e laughed. Rage so terrible as to 
be madness filled Rod Cantrell. 
“And I shall show you how it happens,” 
,jaid Jugg, with a bright smile. 

He was a little man. He went tripping 
across the smooth floor to the glistening, 
torpedo-shaped object in the center of the 
hall. He opened a small port in its side and 
climbed within. There was a pause, while he 
made adjustments to apparatus within. 

Then, suddenly, the silvery thing changed 
color. The light upon it did not alter. It did 
not glow. Its inherent color changed, like a 
chameleon’s hide. It went bluish, then yel- 
low, then orange — when it seemed to have 
turned to gold — and then it passed through 
all the shades of red to a color which was 
beyond all color. And then it faded- frc«n 
sight. It simply wasn’t there. 

Then-, quite abruptly, there was a sudden 
puff of air and the vanished object was sol- 
idly on the floor within three paces of Rod 
Cantrell. Its nose touched the elaborate desk 
at which Jugg had sat. There were clanking 
noises inside and the slamming of something 
metallic which seemed to lock. A pau.se, and 
then Jugg climbed out of the reopened port. 
He rubbed his hands. 

There was no question of trickery. The 
torpedo had moved no more than twenty 
paces, but there was nothing of the conjur- 
ing-trick about it. For one thing, the gener- 
ators Earth Government scientists had made 
to fight Jugg’s creations emitted just such 
changes of color when tlieir fields were 


STABTUNG STORIES 


94 

turned cm. 

“You see,” said Jugg, beaming, “how it 
works! I got into the torpedo and focussed 
my tractor-beam upon my desk. Then I 
turned on the force-field. For a very little 
time I was in other dimensions, in a universe 
parallel with but not our own. But by my 
tractor-beam I was anchored to my desk and 
drawn to it. Had my force-field been large 
enough, the desk would have entered the 
field and it and I and the torpedo would have 
vanished forever. 

“But I had made the force-field small, for 
my own safety. The desk could not enter it, 
so I was anchored to it, and when I turned 
off the force-field I returned to this set of 
dimensions and to our universe. 

“It is so,” he added blandly, “that we store 
these weapons. All about the walls, here, 
are such torpedoes anchored to the fabric of 
this building, with cords which run from 
their controls to the universe of men. I pull 
a cord, and I have a weapon with which to 
destroy another city of the enemies of the 
Total State. Do you not see that we can de- 
stroy all of Earth, if we chose, so that it must 
submit to us?” 

Rod Cantrell’s eyes went around the walls. 
He saw cords dangling. Pull one of those 
cords, and a generator in a tiny separate 
space would turn off, and there would be an- 
other such torpedo as this. 

Jugg chuckled. 

“In this one hall,” he said radiating good- 
nature, “is such power to destroy as never 
existed before. And it is all so tranquil ! One 
by one we retrieve our weapons from another 
set of dimensions — ^another space — and send 
them to carry our enemies to the emptiness 
from which we brought them. Our enemies 
will never return !” 

Rod Cantrell said thickly, “You fool ! 
With all the stars for conquest, you have to 
fight men! But what’s the rest of it? You 
didn’t bring me here to gloat over me ! What 
happens now?” 

Jugg beamed at him. He pressed a button. 

“Now I send you to tell your compatriots. 
I put you in this torpedo. I have set its con- 
trols — tractor-beam and all — and locked 
them so that you cannot change them. This 
torpedo will vanish from sight and appear in 
your city of Washington. It is automatic. 
Having arrived in Washington, you will re- 
lease yourself — quickly — and tell your com- 
patriots what I have told you. You will have 
to be quick, because my torpedo will melt 


itself quickly lest our enemies learn its se- 
crets. Then we will destroy more cities, and 
your compatriots will know the hopelessness 
of resisting us, and will submit. And when 
we have organized Earth to our liking, we 
will set about the conquest of the stars. But 
Earth comes first. We, who can conquer the 
stars cannot do less than rule our own 
planet !” 

R od CANTRELL found the palms of 
his hands bleeding, so fiercdy were 
his fingers clenched. Anger and a sick hor- 
ror held him motionless. Jugg and his kind 
did have all the power he described. Rod 
Cantrell, himself, could almost duplicate or^ 
of these torpedoes from knowledge already 
existing in the outer world. But he imew 
that a part of what Jugg said was lies. He 
spoke of automatic machinery in the torpedo. 
That was a lie. A generator blocking off 
space-stresses, of necessity was itself in so 
terrific a magnetic field that no automatic 
machinery could function. Generators of 
this type had to 1^ worked by manual con- 
trols. They had to be ! So a torpedo had t® 
be worked by a man inside it. No other con- 
trol was possible ! 

Therefore this tale of Jugg’s. He, Rod 
Cantrell, was trfd that he bore a message to 
his compatriots. Actually, he would turn on 
the device which first would take him to a 
city of his own nation, and then would engulf 
it — and there would be another chasm like 
that of Pittsburgh where another city had 
been. It was the pattern of Total State psy- 
chology that a prisoner of war -would be used 
to control a weapon against his own side. 

Rod Cantrell said defiantly: “We’ll beat 
you somehow!” 

But he had no idea how. There -were 
tramping footsteps. The six guards who had 
brought him here returned. They halted in 
clashing unison. Jugg grinned happily at the 
prisoner. He did not speak to the guards. 
He merely nodded to them. 

Two of them seized Rod’s right arm. Tw^ 
others seized his left. Two released his legs 
while the others held blasters ready. They 
marched him the three paces to the torpedo. 
They heaved him off his feet and put his legs 
inside. They shoved him into the cockpit of 
the torpedo. They watched as he settled 
himself, gray-faced and raging. Then they 
turned and tramped out, keeping step with 
vast precision. 

‘“niey have been conditioned,” said Jugg 


TOE STORY OF 

appreciatively. “They have no thoughts 
■which the Total State does not wish them to 
have. Now I give you your directions ! There 
are two controls left unlocked for you to use. 
You see them?” 

Rod Cantrell’s eyes took in the interior of 
the cockpit. There was a metal panel before 
him. It had been opened. Now it was closed 
and locked fast. There were two small wheels 
which doubtless could be turned. One 
was marked, “Turn to start.” The other: 
"Turn for release after arrival.” 

“You turn the starting- wheel,” said Jugg, 
“and the field will go on. Immediately you 
will be in other-space, yet linked to the city 
of Washington by the tractor-beam I have 
fixed upon it. In that other-space — outside 
of our universe altogether — you will be 
drawn to the neighborhood of Washington. 
And when you have arrived, you will turn 
the release-wheel and my field will go off and 
you will be back in our universe, in the city 
of Washington. And you will leave the tor- 
pedo very quickly and it will melt itself be- 
hind you. Then you will tell your compa- 
triots of their futility. That is all.” 

Rod Cantrell snarled : "All but the way 
we’ll get back at you 1” 

Jugg, giggling, closed the door. A small 
electric bulb in the ceiling of the cockpit, be- 
gan to glow. There were iron walls all about. 
He noticed two small wheels. No, they 
weren’t controls. Rod Cantrell had no power 
whatever over the torpedo. He ■was expected 
to turn one control, and he knew that in so do- 
ing he would doom a city of the outer world. 
He was instructed to turn the other control, 
but he grinned in gray -faced fury. The Total 
State would not release him. There would 
be— 

Yes, up near the ceiling there was a small 
hole. And it was a part of the science which 
fought the Total State to understand Total 
State psychology. 

A technician of G2A grade could read be- 
yond appearances. 

With absolute certainty. Rod Cantrell 
knew what would happen after he had turned 
the first control and destroyed a city. If he 
should turn the second control, a deadly gas 
would pour out of that opening up at the top 
of the cockpit, to kill him. That would be to 
keep him from any conceivable chance of tell- 
ing his fellow-men, trapped in an unknown 
universe to which the torpedo would trans- 
port them, what would happen when the gen- 
erator was turned off. 


ROD CANTIUSLL 95 

T hat was the pattern. And Rod Can- 
trell had absolutely no choice. He could 
turn the two controls in succession— and die 
with some millions of his fellow-men — or- 
fail to turn either. In the latter case some 
other prisoner would be fooled into carrying 
out the mission he refused. And if Rod Can- 
trell did refuse, suspicion would be aroused 
that he knew more than he should, and the 
Total State psycholoigsts would set to work 
to crack his brain and extract everything 
from it that would be useful. 

It was very quiet in the cockpit It was 
two feet wide and four feet long and no more 
than three and a half feet high. It was to be 
Rod Cantrell’s coffin. Of course there ■was 
no ventilation. He would suffocate here in 
twenty minutes. If he did not carry out his 
orders, Jugg need only wait to be sure tlmt 
he died, in the most closely guarded building 
of the most invincibly defended section of 
the impregnable capital city of the enemies 
of the rest of the earth. 

There was exactly one thing he could do 
— help the Total State to enslave the rest of 
humanity by destroying millions of his com- 
patriots. The psychological trickery by which 
he had supposedly been fooled was simply 
the most efficient way to make him work 
Jugg’s will. 

But the whole set-up was as cold-bloodedly 
unbeatable as any plan for murder could pos- 
sibly be. Rod Cantrell — scowling in the 
space, which was to be his coffin — did not 
even think fleetingly of saving his own life. 
He did not even hope, now,' to prevent the 
destruction of all human liberty. But he had 
been sent on a suicide mission and he tried 
fiercely to make a plan by which his death 
would not be a complete triumph for his 
enemies. 

He tried the two controls, very delicately. 
The “start” control was free. The other? 
Yes. It stirred, yet it resisted and actually 
moved something unseen. 

He moved his leg to pound on the inside 
of the metal door which closed him in. He 
pounded again, and again. The door could 
be opened from within, of course. Jugg had 
opened it from within. But the handle was 
not difiicult to miss. So Rod Cantrell pound- 
ed sa'vagely on the inside of the door. He 
tried to sound like a man in savage rage. 
But everything would depend on the time- 
lapse. 

He had counted to seventy when there i 
were noises. Jugg himself was opening the i 


STARTLING STORIES 


96 

port. It was too short a time for him to 
have summoned the guards. The door swung 
wide and Jugg looked in, his eyes bright and 
mocking. Rod Cantrell snarled at him. 

“What’s this? A joke? Nothing hap- 
pened!” 

Jugg regarded him with his head on one 
side. 

“I, Jugg, do not joke. You followed my 
instructions?” 

“I turned that all the way!” rasped Rod. 
“It turned free. It’s loose!” 

He pointed to the starting control. It was 
only a two-inch wheel. Jugg glanced at it. 
He peered more closely. More closely still — 

Rod Cantrell did three things at once. He 
slammed his right hand forward with every 
ounce of strength, trapping Jugg’s head 
against the door-frame of the cockpit. He 
turned the “Release” control. And he held 
his breath. Specifically, he held his breath. 

Silvery vapor gushed from the hole in the 
bulkhead above him. The cockpit became 
filled with an almost palpable fog. Jugg wrig- 
gled and gasp)ed in awful terror — ^and the 
gasp did the trick. His lungs filled with the 
pearly mist. He kicked convulsively. Once 
only. Then he went limp. 

Rod had been right that the reward for 
destroying his fellow-citizens would be death. 
He had managed to share that reward with 
Jugg, which was a matter for exultation. 
But now he fought desperately to do more. 
He continued to hold his breath. The vajwr 
was heavier than air. It flowed with infinite 
deliberation out the lower part of the door, 
cascading in pearly deadliness over the con- 
tours of Jugg’s body. 

Presently there was a little clear air at the 
top of the cockpit, but Rod did not dare to 
risk it. He managed to wriggle his head 
out the top of the door. He gasped horribly, 
but the air was clean. He saw the poison- 
ous mist settling with a vast, tranquil lack of 
h2iste to a thin layer of haze upon the floor. 
It spread slowly, slowly at its edges. 

There was silence. Rod’s position was 
strained and painful. Even the small body, 
of Jugg was a terrible burden. But he would 
not drop it. 

I ONG minutes passed. Then he dared 
draw back. He dragged Jugg’s body 
across his knees. He had not hoped for 
more than Jugg’s death — in itself the equiva- 
lent of a military defeat for the Total State — 
but now a sudden possibility loomed ahead — 


a hop)e so blindinly bright that he dared 
not think of it but would only let himself 
concentrate on the things to bg done. 

He rifled Jugg’s pockets and found a key. 
This key, he guessed, would open the panel 
by which the target of the torpedo was 
chosen — it would reveal the controls by which 
Jugg had been able to move this torp)edo 
only across this hall. There was a blaster — 
a tiny affair of a new typ)e to Rod. Probably 
it was of the very latest and most super- 
deadly design. 

Rod’s hands trembled as he tried the key. 
There was only silence outside the torpedo. 
In a Total State, the only way to be safe is 
to be irreplaceable. Jugg would not want 
others to know how to work his torpedoes. 
The panel opened. 

Rod stared in. His heart leaped. The con- 
trols were simple — -sheer stark necessities 
only. And Rod could understand, certainly, 
the control for the force-field, because it 
had to be so much like the manual control 
for the generators Earth Government tech- 
nicians had devised. And if the force-field 
were made small — ^as Jugg had had it when 
he moved across the hall — 

No ! It should be larger than that, lai^r 
from the beginning! 

Rod’s hands shook, but he made adjust- 
ments. Then there were shouts. Someone 
had looked in and seen Jugg’s body on the 
floor where Rod had let it drop. There were 
many footsteps and more shouts. 

Rod Cantrell turned the “Start” control. 
He stared out of the port. All the world 
changed color. A film of red spread swiftly 
out from the torpedo. Yellowness followed 
it, and blue, and then so deep an indigo that 
it was almost total darkness, and then a 
violet that deepened to black. And then — 

He had no weight. There was no light 
There were only panic-stricken screamings 
in utter blackness. But he seemed to fall, 
and fall, and fall. 

Then there was a shock, and the sound 
of breaking walls and crumbling stone, and 
the screamings became the cries of madmen. 
Rod Cantrell reached in the open panel and 
turned off the force-field. 

He expected, really, black emptiness and 
unfriendly stars, and for the air to puff frcmi 
his lungs into the. vacuum of interstellar 
space. But there was sunshine — though it 
had been night in the enemy capital — ^and 
walls reeled and fell all about him and blue 
skv showed beyond. 


THE STORY OF BOD CANTRELL 


Crazed figures raced toward him and he 
used the tiny blaster from Jugg’s pocket and 
even then was appalled at the destruction 
its bolts produced. And then the ceiling fell 
in and something struck the toq^edo a titanic 
blow ! 

***** 

He opened his eyes to look into the muzzle 
of a blaster, but the face behind it was hon- 
estly grim and wholesomely savage, and the 
uniform was the same as his own. He grinned 
feebly, and gave a code-word, and then wait- 
ed while men brought torches and cut 
through the crushed walls of the torpedo to 
free him. 

The torpedo didn’t matter. There were 
more to be salvaged from the shattered lab- 
oratory about him — ^anchored to separate 
parts of its walls, and in whatever other 
universe the force-field opened. Anyhow, 
now that Rod Cantrell knew the basic idea, 
it would be easy enough to build tor|>edoes 
— and space-ships — for the Earth Govern- 
ment. 

Rod Cantrell felt very, very good. His 
face was fixed in a satisfied grin as they 
lifted him onto a stretcher and carried him 
away. When Jugg made the torpedo van- 
ish and reappear in another place in the 
laboratory hall, its force-field had been very 
small. It had carried with it no more than 
an inch or two of air outside its hull. But 
when Rod Cantrell turned on the field, it 
would have been very small, but it would 
have grown as the torpedo fell through other- 
space toward Washington. 

W HEN it reached that city, the force- 
field would have been huge — large 
enough for the city to move into, when of 
course it would be cut off from the universe 
of men. Rod had needed only to change the 
controls for the size of the force-field. He’d 
set them so that the force-field would in- 
dade the research laboratory of the Total 


97 

State from the very beginning. But so it 
would not get any larger. 

That was all that was needed. Laboratory 
and torpedo together had gone into other- 
space and together had been drawn to Wash- 
ington. But the field which held them was 
too small for the city to enter, so they had 
been anchored to Washington — like the 
torpedo, in Jugg’s demonstration, to his desk 
— until the force-field was cut off. And the 
result was that Rod Cantrell had not only 
returned to his own country without destroy- 
ing a city, but he’d brought the enemy re- 
search-laboratory with him, with its staff of 
scientists, and he’d brought also all the store 
of torpedoes made ready for the conquest 
of Earth. 

So-o-o — half a dozen of the Total State’s 
torpedoes ended the war. That State fell 
apart into a horde of vociferously protesting 
individuals, each one of whom claimed that 
he had been forced to do all that he had done, 
and that he, personally, was a loyal citizen 
and simply loved the Earth Government. 

And Rod Cantrell ? He was presented 
with many medals, but he asked for some- 
thing better. And as a technician, G2A 
grade, he was qualified, so he supervised the 
building of a newer, and superior, and much 
more useful torpedo. And he was at the con- 
trols when its tractor-beam fixed on Mars, 
and then its force-field went on — close to 
its .skin — so that the torpedo and Rod Can- 
trell went into other-space and went hurtling 
through that other-space’s emptiness toward 
Mars, which of course was too large to enter 
the force-field when the space-ship ^ould 
reach it. 

He was the first man on Mars. And on 
Venus. And Calypso. And Neptune VIII. 
And he led the expedition that colonized 
Vega II. Every schoolboy knows that Rod 
Cantrell was a very famous man. 

But there was a time when he wasn’t, and 
when civilization was in very great danger 
indeed. "This is the story of Rod Cantrell at 
that time. 



Look forward to THE BLACK GALAXY, a complete Rod Cantrell 
novel by MURRAY LEINSTER — coming in the next issue! 


The Sub ^Standard 
SAUDINES 


A Magnus Rkiolpb Novelet 



By JACK VANCe 


MagMS Rklolpli, relaxed ta tfce 
dhi^ suit, te^icated siaabols 
M tk9 diarts 




98 





The' saga of the most fantastic 
business partnership in all the 
history of galactic development! 

Banish Evil from the world? Nonsense! Encourage it, foster it, 
sponsor it. The world owes Evil a debt beyond imagination. Think! 
Without greed ambition falters. Without vanity art becomes idle 
musing. Without cruelty benevolence lapses to passivity. Super- 
stition has shamed man into self-reliance and, without stupidity, 
where would be the savor of superior understanding? 

— Magnus Ridolph 


broiled grouse with truffles and compote of Mar- 
chisand cherries. Queen Persis salad, Sirius Fifth 
artichokes. A subsidiary report of ray own — wines 
from three planets, including an incredible Fra- 
gence claret, a final course of canned sardines. 

If you are free. I’d like your verdict on the 
menu — especially the sardines, which are unusual. , 

Joel Karamor. 

Magnus Ridolph returned to tlie deck- 
chair, re-read the invitation, folded it, laid 
it on the table beside him. He rubbed his 
short white beard, then, leaning back in his 
deckchair, half-closed his eyes, apparently 
intent cm a small sailboat, white the walb \ 
of Marrakech, plying the dark blue face of I 


M agnus ridolph lay on a 

deck-cdiair, a green and or- 
ange umbrella bearing the 
brunt of the African sunlight. The table 
beside him supported a smouldering ci- 
gar, Shemmlers News Discussions 
turned face downward, a glass contain- 
ix^ ice and a squeezed half-lime. In short, a 
picture of relaxation, idyllic peace . . . The 
transgraf darned from within. 

After a restless interval Magnus Ridolph 
arcse, entered the apartment, took the mes- 
eage from the rack. It read ; 

T^ar Magnus, 

My chefs report on tomorrow’s dinner — 


99 


100 STAKTLBSFG STORIES 


Lake Sahara. 

He arose abruptly, crossed into his study, 
seated himself at his Mnemiphot, keyed the 
combination for Sardines. 

For several minutes information played 
across the screen. Very little seemed signifi- 
cant and he found no notes of his own on the 
topic. The sardina pilchardis, according to 
the Mnemiphot, belonged to the herring 
family, swam in large shoals and fed on 
minute pelagic animals. Tliere were further 
details of scale pattern, breeding habits, 
natural enemies, discussion of variant spe- 
cies. 

M^nus Ridolph wrote an acceptance to 
the invitation, ticked off Joel Karamor’s 
address code, dropped the message into the 
transgraph slot. 

K ARAMOR was a large healthy man 
with a big nose, a big chin, a brush of 
brindle-gray hair. He was an honest man 
and conducted his life on a basis of candor, 
simplicity and good-will. Magnus Ridolph, 
accustomed to extremes of deception and 
self-interest, found him a refreshing variant. 

The dinner was served in a high room 
paneled in Congo hardwoods, decorated with 
primitive masks hung high in the shadows. 
One glass wall opened up on a magnificent 
expanse of clear blue twilight and, twenty 
miles south, the loom of the Tibesti foothills. 

The two sat at a table of burnished lignum 
vitae, between them a centerpiece of carved 
malachite which Magnus Ridolph recog- 
nized for a Three-Generation Work from 
the Golwana Coast of the planet Mugh — a 
product of father, son and son’s son, toiled 
over a hundred years to the minute.* 

The dinner surpassed Karamor’s usual 
standard. The grouse was cooked to a turn, 
the salad beyond exception. The wines were 
smooth and brilliant, rich but not cloying. 
Dessert was a fruit ice, followed by coarse 
crackers and cheese. 

“Now,” said Karamor, watching Magnus 
Ridolph slyly, “for our sardines and coffee.” 

Magnus Ridolph obliged with the wry 
face he knew to be expected of him. “The 
coffee, at least, I shall enjoy. The sardines 
will have to be of spectacular quality to 
tempt me.” 


*Tbe catalogue of Pomukka-Dben, last of the Golwaoa 
emp^ors, listed seven thousand C^tury pieces, 136 Mil- 
lemimni i>iecc.s, and fourteen Ten-Thousand-Year pieces. 
A rumor had reached Magnus Ridolph of a Hundredr 
Thousand-Year work nearing completion in the Backlands, 
a gigantic carved tourmaline. 


Karamor nodded significantly. “They’re 
umisual.” He arose, slid back the panel of a 
wall-cabinet, returned to the table with a flat 
can, embossed in red, blue and yellow. 

“It’s yours,” and Karamor, seating him- 
self, watched his guest expectantly. 

The label read : Premier Quality. Select 
Sardines in oil. Packed by Chandaria Can- 
neries, Chandaria. 

Magnus Ridolph’s fine white eyebrows 
rose. “Imported from Chandaria? A long 
way to bring fish.” 

“The sardines are top-grade,” said Kara- 
mor. “Better than anything on earth — deli- 
cacies of prime quality and they bring a 
premium price.” 

“I still should not, at first thought, imagine 
it profitable,” was Magnus Ridolph’s doubt- 
ful comment. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” declared 
Karamor. “Of course you must understand 
the cannery expenses are very low, and com- 
pensate for the shipping costs. And then 
spacefreight is not especially expensive. 
Actually we’re doing very well.” 

Magnus Ridolph looked up from the can. 
“We?” 

“George Donnels, my partner in the can- 
ning business, and myself. I financed the 
proposition, and I look after the sales. He 
runs the cannery and fishing operations.” 

"I see,” said Magnus Ridolph vaguely. 

“A few months ago,” continued Karamor, 
frowning, “he offered to buy me out. I told 
him I’d consider it. And then — ” Karamor 
gestured toward the can. “Open it.” 

Magnus Ridolph bent over the can, rais- 
ing a tab, pressing the lid-release button. . . . 
Bang! The lid flew high in the air, the con- 
tents of the can sprayed in all directions. 

Magnus Ridolph sat back, raising eye- 
brows mutely at Karamor. He felt his 
beard, cconbing out the fragments of fish 
which had become entangled in the hairs. 

“Spectacular indeed,” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph. “I agree. What were the other tests 
you wished me to make?” 

Karamor rose to his feet, circled the table. 
“Believe me, Magnus, that surprised me as 
much as it did you. I expected nothing like 
that ...” 

“What did you expect?” inquired Mag- 
nus Ridolph drily. “A flight of birds?” 

“No, no, please believe me, Magnus. You 
must know I wouldn’t indulge in a stupid 
joke of that sort !” 

Magnus Ridolph wiped his face with ai 


THE SUB-STANDARD SARDINES 101 


napkin. “What is the explanation for the — 
he licked his lips — “the occurrence?” 

Karamor returned to his seat. “I don’t 
know. I’m worried. I want to find out. I’ve 
opened a dozen cans of sardines in the last 
week. About half were in good condition. 
The rest — all tampered with, one way or 
another. 

“In one can the fish were threaded with 
fine wires. In anohter the flesh tasted of 
petroleum. Another gave off a vile odor. I 
can’t understand it. Someone or something 
wants to ruin Chandaria Cannery’s reputa- 
tion. ” 

“How widespread is this tampering?” 

“Only the last shipment, so far as I know. 
We’ve had nothing but compliments on the 
product up to now.” 

“Whom do you suspect?” 

Karamor spread out his big hands. “I 
don’t know. Dcamels couldn’t tenefit, that’s 
certain — unless he figured he could scare 
me into selling and I dxink he knows me 
better than that. I thought you might in- 
vestigate — act for me.” 

Magnus Ridolph considered a moment. 
“Well — at the moment, so it happens, I’m 
free.” 

Karamor relaxed, smiled. “The import 
seals were all intact,” he told his guest. 

“And they are applied at the cannery?” 
“Right.” 

“Then,” said Ma^us Ridolph, “it is 
evident that the mischief occurs on Chanda- 
ria.” 

M agnus Ridolph rode the passenger 
packet to City of the Thousand Red 
Candles, on Rhodope, Fomalhaut’s fourth 
planet, where he took a room at the Ernst 
Delabri Inn. 

He enjoyed a quiet dinner in the outdoor 
dining room, then hired a barge and let the 
boatman paddle him along the canals till long 
after dark. 

Next morning Magnus Ridolph cissumed 
a new character. Ignoring his white and 
blue tunic, he buttoned himself into a worn 
brown work-suit, pulled a gray cloth cap 
over his ruff of white hair. Then, crossing 
the King’s Canal and the Panalaza, he 
threaded the dingy street of the .Old Town 
to the Central Employment Pool. 

Here he found little activity. A few men, 
a few nervous tom-tickers, a knot- of Capel- 
lan anthropoids, one Yellowbird, a few nat- 
ive Rhodopians listlessly watched the call- 


screen. Prominent on the wall was a sign 
reading : 

CANNERY workers! 

WANTED ON CHANDARIA I 

— a notice , which excited little attention. 

Magnus Ridolph strolled to the assign- 
ment window. The velvet-skiimed Rhodo- 
pian clerk bobbed his head courteously, 
lisped, “Yes, sir?” 

“I’d like to try the cannery on Chanda- 
ria,” said Magnus Ridolph. 

The Rhodopian flicked him a seal-brown 
glance. “In what capacity?” 

“What positions are open?” 

The Rhodopian glanced at a list. “Electri- 
cian — three hundred munits ; integrator-feed 
mechanic — three hundred twenty munits ; 
welder — two hundred ninety munits ; labor — • 
two hundred munits.” 

“Hm,” said Magnus Ridolph. “No cleri- 
cal work?” 

“At the present, no.” - 

“I’ll try the electrician job.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the Rhodopian. “May I 
see your Union Journeyman Certificate?” 

“My word,” said Magnus Ridolph. “I 
neglected to pack it.” 

The Rhodopian showed blunt pink teeth. 
“I can send you out as a laborer. The 
steward will sign you up on the job.” 

“Very well,” sighed Magnus Ridolph. 

A cargo freighter conveyed the cannery 
recruits to Chandaria — a thick wobbly shell 
permeated through and through with the 
reek of hot oil, sweat a»d ammonia. Magnus 
Ridolph and a dozen others were quartered 
in an empty hold. They ate in the crew’s 
mess and were allowed two quarts of water 
a day for washing. Smoking was forbidden. 

Little need be said of the voyage. Magnus 
Ridolph for years afterward labored to ex- 
punge the memory from his brain. When at 
last the passengers filed, blinking, out on 
Chandaria, Magnus Ridolph looked his part. 
His beard was unkempt and dirty, his hair 
hung around his ears and he blended com- 
pletely with his fellows. 

His first impression of the planet was dis- 
mal watery distance, drifting patches of fog, 
wan maroon illumination. Chandaria was 
the ancient planet of an ancient red sun and 
the land lay on a level with the ocean — 
prone, a gloomy peneplain haunted with 
slow-shifting mists. 

In spite of its age Chandaria supported 


102 


STARTLING TORIES 


no native life more advanced than reeds and 
a few fern trees. Protozoa swarmed the seas 
and, with no natural enemies, the twenty 
thousand sardines originally loosed into the 
waters throve remarkably well. 

As the passengers alighted from the hold 
of the freighter a young man with a long 
horse-like yellow face, very broad shoulders, 
ver^ narrow hips, stepped forward. 

“This way, men,” he said. "Bring your 
luggage.” 

The newcomers obediently trooped at his 
heels, across ground that quaked underfoot. 
The path led into fog and, for a quarter- 
mile, the only features of the landscape were 
a few rotten trees thrusting forlorn branches 
through the mist, a few pools of stagnant 
water. 

Tlie mist presently thinned, revealing a 
huddle of long buildings and, beyond, an 
expanse of reeds and the glint of water. 


“This is the bunkhouse for those of you 
who sleep,” and the young man jerked his 
finger at the men and the anthropoids. “You 
go in and sign with the house-captain. You, 
Yellowbird, you, Portmar, and you, Rho- 
dope, this way.” 

Magnus Ridolph ruefully shook his head 
as he mounted the soggy steps into the bunk- 
house. This was probably the low point in 
his career. Two hundred munits a month, 
grubbing among the intimate parts of fish. 
He made a wry grimace, entered the bunk- 
house. 


He found an empty cubicle, threw his 
duffel-bag on the cot, strolled into the recrea- 
tion room, which smelled of fish. Unpainted 
plyboard covered the walls, which were 
spanned by bare aluminum rafters. A cheap 
telescreen at the end of the room displayed 
a buxom young woman, singing and con- 
torting her body with approximately equal 
vehemence. 

Magnus Ridolph sighed once more, in- 
quired for the house-captain. 


E WAS assigned to the No. 4 Evi- 
scerator. His duties were simple. At 
intervals of about three minutes he pulled 
a lever which raised a gate. From a pond 
outside came a rush of water and thousands 
of sardines, swam serenely ' into the ma- 
chine, where fingers, slots and air jets sorted 
them for size, guided them against flashing 
knives, finally flung them through a spray 
and out on a series of belts, where, still 
flapping feebly, they were tucked into cans 


by a fine of packers. 

These packers were mostly Banshoos from 
nearby Thaddeus XII — bulbous gray tcarsas 
with twenty three-fingered tentacles, an eye 
and a sub-brain at the tip of each tentacle. 

From the packers the cans were fitted 
with lids, conducted through a bank of elec- 
tronic cookers and finally stacked into crates, 
sealed and ready for export 

Magnus Ridolph considered the process 
with a thoughtful eye. An efficient and well- 
organized sequence of operations, he decid- 
ed. The Banshoo packers were the only non- 
mechanical stage in the process and, watch- 
ing the swift play of tentacles over the belt, 
Magnus Ridolph thought that no machine 
could work as quickly and flexibly. 

Somewhere along this line, he reflected, 
the sardines had been, and possibly were 
being, adulterated. Where? At the moment 
no answer presented itself. 

He ate his lunch in an adjoining cafe- 
teria. The food was passable — precooked on 
Earth, served in sealed trays. Returning 
toward his post at Eviscerator No. 4 he 
noted a doorway leading out on a plaiflc 
walk. 

Magnus Ridolph paused, stepped outside. 
The walk, supported on piles driven into 
the morass, ran the length of the plant. Mag- 
nus Ridolph turned toward the ocean, hop- 
ing to catch a glimpse of the cannery’s fish- 
ing fleet. 

The mist had lifted somewhat, revealing 
endless miles of reed-covered mud-flats and 
a stagnant sea. The land proper was distin- 
guishable from the mud-flats only by an oc- 
casional cycad which showed a dull froiKl 
to the great somber sun. It was a landscape 
bleak and inexpressibly dreary, a world 
without hope or joy. 

Magnus Ridolph rounded the corner of 
the plant, came upon the concentration pond 
from which the fish were channeled to the 
eviscerators. He looked right and left but— 
except for a neat aluminum dinghy — not a 
boat of any sort was visible. How then was 
the cannery supplied with fish? 

He turned his attention to the concentra- 
tion pond, a shallow concrete basin, fifty 
feet by twenty, with a break in the wall fac- 
ing the sea three feet square. Magnus Ri- 
dolph, stepping closer, saw that a set of long 
transparent bristles pointed through the 
opening, permitting fish to swim m, but 
preventing their escape. 

And as he watched, the dull amrface of the 


THE SUB-STANDARD SARDINES 


ocean rippkd. He caught the sheen of a 
diousand small fins, and into the basin dart- 
ed first one fish, then a hundred, dien a 
thousand and further thousands until the 
basin seethed and spattered with coraentrat- 
ed life. 

Magnus Ridolph felt eyes on him. Lifting 
his head he saw standing across the pond 
the broad-shouldered young man with the 
long yellow face. He wore puttees, high field 
boots of nulastic, a tan jacket, and now he 
came striding around the pond toward Mag- 
nus Ridolph. 

“You supposed to be out here? Or at 
work ?” 

“I am employed, yes,” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph mildly. “I supervise a” — ^he coughed 
— “an eviscerator. But now, I have only just 
finished my lunch.” 

The young man’s mouth curled. “The 
whistle blew half an hour ago. Get in mo- 
tion, Pop, because we didn’t bring you three 
light-years out here to see the sights.” 

“If, as you say, the whistle has blown, I 
shall certainly return to my duties. Er — 
whom have I the pleasure of addressing?” 

“My name’s Donnels. I sign your check.” 

“Ah, yes. I see,” said Magnus Ridolph, 
nodding. He thoughtfully returned to the 
eviscerator. 

His duties were light but morjotonous. 
Open the gate, shut it; open the gate, shut 
it — occasionally break up a jam of frantic 
silvery bodies in front of the segregators. 
Magnus Ridolph found ample time for re- 
flection. 

An explanation for the mysterious adul- 
terations seemed as far away as ever. The 
man who could accomplish the mischief 
most easily was George Donnels but so far 
as Magnus Ridolph could see, the plant 
seemed completely efficient. True, Donnels 
wanted to buy out Karamor’s interest but 
why should he endanger the reputation of 
his own product? 

Especially when he had such admirable 
raw material — for the fish, so Magnus Ri- 
dolph rioted, were larger and more plump 
than the specimens displayed by his Mnemi- 
phot. Evidently conditions on Chandaria 
agreed with them or possibly Donnels had 
stocked the world with only the most select 
fish. 

^ Open the gate, close it. And he noted that 
the surge of fish down the chute formed a 
recurring jjattern. First one fish — rather 
larger, this one, perhaps the leader of the 


103 

shoal — then the thousands, dashing helter- 
skelter after him into the knives. There was 
never any hesitation. The instant the gate 
opened, in surged the shoal-leader, followed 
by the eager thousands. 

T he races most numerously represented 
at the cannery were the Banshoos, 
Capellan anthropoids, men and Cordovan 
toricles, in that order. Each had its separate 
bunkhouse and mess-hall — though bunk- 
house was perhaps a misnomer for the tanks 
of warm broth in which the Banshoos wal- 
lowed, or the airtight barracks of the Capel- 
lans. 

After a shower and his evening meal, 
Magnus Ridolph wandered into the recrea- 
tion room. The telescreen was for the mo- 
ment lifeless and a pair of card games were 
in progress. Magnus Ridolph took a seat 
beside a stocky bald man with plump cheeks 
and little blue pig-eyes, who was reading 
the afternoon news-facsimile. 

After a moment he laid the sheet to the 
side, stretched pudgy arms, belched. Magnus 
Ridolph with grave courtesy offered him a 
cigarette. 

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do,” said the 
stocky man cheerfully. 

“Rather dull isn’t it?” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph. 

“Sure is,” and his new friend blew a 
plume of smoke into the already hazy atmos- 
phere. “Think I'll take outa this jungle 
next ship.” 

“You’d think the company would provide 
better recreation facilities,” said Magnus 
Ridolph. 

“Oh, they don’t care for anything but 
making money. These are the worst condi- 
tions I’ve ever worked in. Bare union mini- 
mum, no extras at all, whatever.” 

“A matter has been puzzling me—” be- 
gan Magnus Ridolph. 

“Lots of stuff puzzling me,” sniffed his 
friend. 

“How are the fish supplied to the can- 
nery?” 

“Oh,” the man exhaled a wise cloud of 
smoke, “they’re supposed to have bait in 
that pond. There’s so many fish and they’re 
so hungry they bite for anything. Donnels 
sure saves that way — ^gets the fish free, so 
to speak. Don’t cost him a cent, far’s I can 
see.” 

“And where does Donnels live?” in- 
quired Magnus Ridolph. 


STARTLING STORIES 


104 

"He's got him a nice little cabin over 
behind the laboratory.” 

“Oh — the laboratory,” mused the white- 
bearded sage. “And where is the laboratory? 
I hadn’t noticed it.” 

“She’s off along the trail a little ways, 
down the shore.” 

“I see.” 

Magnus Ridolph presently rose to his feet 
and wandered around the room a moment or 
so. Then he slipped out into the night. 

Chandaria had no moons and a heavy mist 
shrouded the face of the planet from the 
stars. Ten steps took Magnus Ridolph into 
utter darkness. He switched on his pocket 
flash, picked his way gingerly over the soggy 
ground, at last came upon the trail to the 
laboratory — a graveled path, dry and solid. 

Once fairly on the path he doused the 
flash, halted, strained his ears for sound. He 
heard a far waver of voices from the direc- 
tion of the cannery, a phonograph faintly 
squeaking Capellan music. 

He continued along the path, guiding him- 
self by the feel of the gravel, stopping often 
to listen. He walked an interminable time, 
through blackness so dense that it seemed to 
stream back from his face as he walked. 
Suddenly a row of lighted windows glowed 
through the fog. Magnus Ridolph moved as 
close as feasible to one of these windows, 
stood on his tiptoes, stared. 

He was looking into a room equipped as 
a biological laboratory. Donnels and a slight 
dark man in a white smock stood talking 
beside a coffin-shaped crate. 

As he watched Donnels took a pair of 
ratters, snapped the bands of metal tape 
binding the crate. The fiber sides fell away, 
wadding was torn aside, and now a factory- 
new diving-suit stood revealed — a semi- 
rigid shell with a transparent dome, oxygen 
generator and propulsion unit. 

Donnels kicked aside the rubbish, stood 
viewing the gear with evident satisfaction. 
Magnus Ridolph strained to catch a word 
of the conversation. Impossible — the window 
was insul-glass. He trotted to the door, 
inched it open. 

“ — ought to be a good outfit, four hundred 
and fifty munits worth,” came Donnels’ flat 
voice. 

“The question is — is it what we need?’’ 

“Sure.” Donnels sounded confident, cock- 
sure. “There’s no current to speak of. In five 
minutes I can circle the colony, and before 
they know v/hat's going on, the stessonite 


will kill ’em off like flies.” 

“Ha, hmph,” the technician coughed. 
“They’ll see you coming — ha, hmph — just 
as when you tried to blast them.” 

“Curse it, Naile,” crowed Donnels, 
“you’re a pessimist! I’ll come in along the 
bottom. They won’t see the suit like they 
did the boat. The suit can hit as fast as they 
can swim; no chance of word getting on 
ahead. Well, we’ll try anyway. No harm 
trying. How’re your pupils coming along?” 

“Good, very good indeed. Two in D tank 
are ready for the fifth chart and in H tank 
— that big fellow — he’s into the eight chart.” 

M agnus ridolph straightened 
slightly, then bent closer. “The Bar- 
nett Method?” He heard Donnels’ voice. 
“And how about that fellow — in the tank by 
himself ?” 

“Ah,” said Naile, “that’s the wise one! 
Sometimes I think he knows more than I 
do.” 

“That’s the boy that’ll make millionaires 
out of both of us,” said Donnels, a singing 
lilt in his voice. “Provided I can buy out 
Karamor.” 

There was a silence. Then Magnus Ri- 
dolph heard a faint movement of feet. He 
ducked back to the window, in time to see 
Donnels’ broad-shouldered figure leaving the 
laboratory. 

Naile came obliquely toward him, bent 
forward with mouth loosely open, staring at 
an object out of Magnus Ridolph’s vision. 
Magnus Ridolph chewed his lip, fingered 
his beard. H\pothtses formed in his mind, 
only to be defeated by their eventual impli- 
cations. Naile left the room through a door 
at the rear. Evidently he had his quarters 
in an annex to the laboratory. 

Magnus Ridolph stirred himself. Further 
information must be collected. He marched 
to the door and, almost insolently casual, 
entered the laboratory. 

Standard equipment — permobeam projec- 
tor and viewer, radio-activator, microscopes 
— visual and quantumna! — -balances, auto- 
matic dissectors, gene calibrators, mutation 
cradles. These he dismissed with a glance. 
At his shoulder stood the diving-suit. First 
things first, thought Magnus Ridolph. He 
inspected the suit with appreciation. 

“Excellent apparatus,” he said to himself. 
"Admirable design, conscientious workman- 
ship. A shame to defeat the purpose of so 
much effort.” He shrugged, reached inside; 


THE SUB-STANDABD SABDINES 


and detached the head of the seam-sealer 
— a small precisely-machined bit of metal, 
without which the suit could not be made 
water-tight. 

Movement flickered across the room. 
Naile! Magnus Ridolph quietly steptped to- 
ward the door. The motion caught the tech- 
nician’s eye. 

“Hey!” he cried. “What are you up to?” 
He bounded forward. “Come back here!” 
But 'Magnus Ridolph was away into the 
Chandaria night. 

A beam of light tore a milky rent through 
the fog, rested a moment on Magnus Ri- 
dolph. 

“You!” roared Naile. For so slight a 
man, thought Magnus Ridolph, his voice 
was remarlably powerful. He heard the thud 
of Naile’s feet. The man also appeared to 
be agile, swift. 

Magnus Ridolph groaned once, then — as 
the thud of feet grew louder — he jurrqjed off 
the path into the swamp. 

He sank to his knees in cool slime, 
crouched, threw himself prone. The beam 
of Naile’s flash passed over his head, the 
steps pounded past. Darkness returned. 

Magnus Ridolph struggled through the 
muck back to the patl% proceeded cautious- 

The mist wandered away, vague as a 
sleepwalker. Magnus Ridolph saw the lights 
of his bunkhouse, a hundred yards distant. 
But as he watched they were obscured by 
something prowling the road in front. 
Naile ? 

Magnus Ridolph turned, trotted as fast as 
his old legs would carry him, skirted far 
around to the left. Then he closed in to the 
rear of the bunkhouse. He made directly for 
the washroom, showered, rinsed out his 
clothes. 

Returning to the recreation hall he found 
the stocky bald man sitting exactly where 
he had left him an hour previously. 

Magnus Ridolph took a seat. “I under- 
stand,” he said, “that Donnels was blasting 
out in the ocean.” 

The plump man guffawed. “Yes, sir, he 
surely was. "What in the Lord’s name for, 
I’m sure I can’t tell you. Sometimes I think 
he's— well, he flies off the handle, like. A 
little excitable.” 

“Possibly he wished to kill some fish?” 
suggested Magnus Ridolph. 

His friend shrugged, pushed plump lips 
out around his pipe-stem. “With hundreds 


105 

of tears of fish swarming of their own free 
will into his cannery he wants to go out and 
kill more? I hardly think so. Unless he’s 
crazier’n I think.” 

“Just where was he blasting?” 

His friend darted him a glance from little 
blue pig-eyes. “Well, I’ll tell you — though I 
don’t see what difference it makes. He was 
right off tire point of land that sticks into 
the ocean — the one with the three tall trees 
on it. About a mile down the shore.” 

“Strange,” mused Magnus Ridolph. He 
pulled the small metal part from his pocket, 
fingering it thoughtfully. “Strange. Sardines 
flinging themselves headlong into cans— 
Donnels and Naile applying the Barnett 
Method to something in a tank — Donnels 
blasting, poisoning something in the ocean 
— and, too, the adulteration of the canned 
sardines. . . . 

H e reported to work at the eviscerator 
with a theory kxxning vague at the 
portals of his mind, like one of the fern trees 
through the Chandaria mist. He bent over 
the chute, eyes under the frosty eyebrows 
sparking with as much excitement as he 
ever permitted himself. 

Open the gate — die surge of fish. Close 
the gate. Open the gate — ^the chute running 
thick with glinting silver crescents. Close 
the gate. Open the gate — the fish, first one, 
then the ranks behind. Close the gate. 

Magnus Ridolph noted that always a lone 
sardine led the way down the chute, a swarm 
of followers close on his tail. And peering 
after them into the bowels of the eviscerator 
Magpius Ridolph noticed an inconspicuous 
side-channel into which the first fish ducked 
while his fellows poured on to their deaths. 

Magnus RidolfA thoughtfully found a 
rag, reached far down, wadded shut the 
side-channel. Open the gate. The lead fish 
plunged down the chute — after him came 
the blind finny horde. He reached the side- 
channel, butted the rag frantically. The 
thrust of the others caught him. With des- 
perate flapping of tail, he vanished into the 
knives. Close the gate. Open the gate. And 
the lead fish, thwarted in his escape by the 
wadded rag, was carried to death by his 
fellows. 

Six times the sequence was repeated. 
Then, when Magnus Ridolph opened the 
gate, there was no rush of fish. He reached 
down, removed the rag, sat peering with 
an innocent eye up the chute. 


STARTUNG STORIES 


106 

A foreman presently bustled forward. 
“What’s the trouble? What’s wrong up 
here?” 

“The fish evidently have learned the dan- 
ger of the chute,” said Magnus ’ Ridolph. 
The foreman gave him a scornful glance. 
“Keep working the gate.” He turned away. 

Ten minutes later, when Magnus Ri- 
dolph opened the gate, fish poured down the 
chute as before. The foreman came to watch 
a moment, assured himself that the fish were 
running as usual, then departed. Magnus 
Ridolph replaced the rag in the side-pas- 
sage. Six operations later the opened gate 
again drew blank. Magnus Ridolph immedi- 
ately pulled out the rag. 

The foreman came on the run. Magnus 
Ridolph shook his head ruefully, framed an 
apologetic smile behind his beard. 

“We can’t have this — -we can’t have this !” 
bawled the foreman. “What’s going on 
here?” 

He ran off, came back with a rock-eyed 
Donnels. 

Donnels peered down the chute, felt into 
the side escape. He drew back, straightened, 
glanced sharply at Magnus Ridolph, who 
blandly returned the gaze. 

“Throw another unit into the tank,” said 
Donnels to the foreman. “Keep an eye on 
’em. See what’s happening.” 

“Yes, sir.” The foreman hurried off. 

Donnels turned to Magnus Ridolph, his 
long yellow face set hard, his mouth pulled 
far down at the corners. 

“You come out on the last ship?” 

“Why, yes,” said Magnus Ridolph. “A 
dismal voyage. The quarters were cramped, 
the food was miserable.” 

The thin mouth quivered. “Where did 
you sign up?” 

“On Rhodope. I remember it perfectly, it 
was — ” 

“Fine, fine,” said Donnels. After a short 
pause. “You look like a pretty smart man.” 

“Ahr, ahem,” said Magnus Ridolph. “Are 
you suggesting a promotion ? I’d be delighted 
to have a more responsible position, some- 
thing clerical perhaps.” 

“If you’re smart,” said Donnels in an 
edged even tone, “you’ll keep your mind on 
your work — and nothing else.” 

“Just as you say,” said Magnus Ridolph 
with dignity. 

The foreman returned. Donnels signaled 
Magnus Ridolph to raise the gate and fish 
once more flushed the chute. 


Donnels stood dose at hand for twenty 
minutes and the foreman remained ten min- 
utes after Donnels had stalked away. 

The rest of the shift Magnus Ridolph per- 
formed his duties well and skillfully — 
though by way of diversion he found it 
amusing to reach down and cuff the Judas 
fish as it passed, until at last the fish learned 
to keep to the far side of the chute. Magnus 
Ridolph could pursue his sport only with 
inconvenient exertion and so desisted. 

M agnus ridolph sat on the clam- 
my bench before the bunkhouse, 
looking out over the landscape. There was 
little to see. Low in the sky hung the giant 
red sun, fitfully obscured by the shifting 
vapors. Ahead stretched the mud-flats and 
the leaden ocean, to his left rose the cannery 
and the warehouse. To his right the labora- 
tory was visible, two hundred yards down 
the gravel path. 

Magnus Ridolph reached for a cigar, then 
remembered that he had packed none in his 
meager luggage— and the brand sold at the 
commissary offended rather than soothed 
his palate. 

Movement at the laboratory. Magnus Ri- 
dolph sat straighter on the bench. Donnels 
and Naile emerged, followed by two Capel- 
lan laborers, carrying the diving-suit. 

Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips. Evident- 
ly the absence of the seam-sealer had not 
been discovered. 

He watched impassively as the party 
turned toward the cannery wharf — Donnels 
darted him a long level stare as he strode 
by. 

As soon as the group had passed Magnus 
Ridolph rose, jauntily set off down the path 
toward the laboratory. He found the door 
unlocked and, entering, turned directly to 
the wall which had been out of his vision 
when he stood at the window. 

Tanks lined the wall, tanks full of fish — 
sardines. Some swam placidly to and fro, 
others hung close to the glass, staring out 
with intent eyes. Magnus Ridolph became 
aware of differences. 

Some had monstrous tails, lizard-like 
heads. Others resembled tadpoles, with rudi- 
mentary fins and tail barely moving hyper- 
developed crania. Eyes bulged at Magnus 
Ridolph — eyes like bubbles, eyes flame red, 
eyes coal-pit black. One fish trailed a bridal- 
train of fins, another wore an antler-like 
head-growth. 


THE SUB-STANDABD SARDINES 


Magnus Ridolph surveyed the array with- 
out emoticm. He had seen like sights in other 
®k)k^cal laboratories, freak distortfons of 
“every descriptitwi. In the infamous clinic on 
•the planet Pandora — Magnus Ridolph re- 
turned to the case at hand, sought a fish in 
a tank by himself — “the wise one.” 

There he was, at the far end — a fish iK>r- 
mal except for a slightly enlarged head. 

“Well, well,” said Magnus Ridolpii, 
“Well, well.” He bent forward, peered into 
the tank and the sardine, eyes unwinking, 
expressionless, stared back. Magnus Ridolph 
tamed, sought around the room. There — the 
twenty charts comprising the Barnett 
Method for Establishing Communication 
with Alien Intelligences. 

Magnus Ridolph fanned out the master 
chart before the tank, and the fish pressed 
chjser to the glass. 

“Opening communication,” Magnus Ri- 
dofph signaled and waited. The fish phmged 
to the bottom of the tank, returned with a 
bit of metal in its mouth. It tapped on the 
glass — once, twice, once, 

Magnus Ridolph had no need to refer to 
the chart. “Proceed,” was the message. 

He bent over the chart, selected the sym- 
bols with care, pausing frequentfy to assure 
himself that the fish was following him. 

“Instructor-man ... of you . . . desire . . . 
utiKze . . . ypu . . . jMirpose . . . injury 
. . . class of you. I . . . know (negative) 

. . . method.” 

The fish tapped on the glass : 5 — 3 — 5, 
4 — 3 — 2. 5 — 6 — 1, 2 — 6 —3 — 4. 

Magnus Ridolph followed the code on the 
chart. “Qass of me . . . exists . . . place 
(indefinite, interrogative) ?*’ 

Magnus Ridolph signaled liack. “I.^rge 
(emphatic) . . . extension . . . water . . . 
exists . . . exterior. Plurality (emphatic) 
. . . class of you . . . exists Qass of instruc- 
tor-man . . . kill . . . class of you . . . eat 
. . . class of you.” 

“Purpose (interrogative) ... of you?” 
was the fish’s pointed signafl. 

“Complex mixture,” signaled Magnus 
Ridolph. “Constructive. You . . . desire 
(interrogative) . . . depart . . tank . . . ccm- 
verge . . . plurality . . . class of you?” 

The fish rattled his bit of metal inde- 
cisively. “Food?” 

“Plurality,” returned Magnus Ridolph. 
“Swim . . . extension (emphatic) . . . bar- 
riers (negative).” 

The fi^ twitched his fins, retired to a 


lot 

dark corner. Presently, as Magnus Ridolph 
was becoming restive, the fish swam out in 
front once more, tapped twice on the glass. 

Magnus Ridol}>h sought around the labor- 
atory, found a bucket. He dipped it into the 
tank, but the fish nervously skittered out of , 
reach. Magnus Ridolph scooped him out 
willy-nilly and, stufifing the Barnett charts, 
into his pocket, he left the laboratory. 

RISKLY he traversed the path, turned 
toward the wharf. Now he spied Don-i 
nels and Naile coming toward him, lines 
dividing Donnels’ yellow face into hard seg- 
ments. Magnus Ridolph prudently set the 
bucket beside the bunkhouse, and was 
placidly seated on the bench when Donnels 
and Naile passed. 

“ — slider was there and working last night, 
I’m sure,” Magnus Ridolph heard Naile say. 
Donnels shook his head curtly. 

As soon as they had passed Magnus Ri- 
dolph took the bucket, continued toward the 
wharf. 

The diving-suit stood at the edge of the 
pier, ready for use — except for the missing 
seam-sealer. The Capellan laborers stood 
dully nearby, watching without interest. 

Magnus Ridolph rubbed his chin. Suit — • 
seam-sealer — why not ? He changed his 
mind about throwing the fish into the ocean ; 
instead he approached the suit, looked it 
over carefully. Two dials on the breastplate; 
one controlled the drive-unit, the other the 
air generator. Simplicity itself. 

He fitted the seam-sealer into place and, 
with a side-glance at the two Capellans, 
stepped into the suit, slid the seam-sealer 
home. The Capellans shifted uneasily, brains 
roiling at a sight which they knew to be un- 
natural — and yet which they had no orders 
to prevent. As an afterthought Magnus Ri- 
dolph unsealed the suit, transferred the Bar- 
nett charts to the exterior pouch, sealed him- 
self into the suit once more. 

At his belt hung a knife, an axe, a flash- 
lamp. Another lamp was set at the top of the 
transparent head-dome. He reached to the 
breastplate, assured himself that the dials 
moved easily, set the air-generator in opera- 
tion. 

He looked over his shoulder. Motion near 
the laboratory. He floated the bucket on the 
sluggish water, lurched off the dock. A last 
glimpse of the rear showed him George Don- 
nels running in his direction, face twisted in 
a cotaortion of rage. Behind him scampered 



STARTLING STORIES 


108 

Naile, white smock flapping. 

Magnus Ridolpli tapped the side of the 
bucket, unsure of the code, hoping for the 
best. “Swim . . . proxiimity . . . me.” Then 
he overturned the ljucket. The fish darted 
out, away. Magnus Ridolph himself sank 
under the surface 

He twisted the propulsion dial. Water was 
sucked into the unit, spewed astern. Magnus 
Ridolph drove headlong through the water. 
And something tore hissing past the head- 
dome, made a vague clap in his ears. 

Magnus Ridolph wrenched at the dial, and 
the water buffeted his suit. 

Two or three minutes later he slowed, 
rose to the surface. The wharf was a quarter- 
mile to the rear and he could see Donnels’ 
taut frame searching across the water. Mag- 
nus Ridolph chuckled. 

The point of land with the three tall trees 
sloped into the ocean at his left. Turning on 
his head-lamp, fixing tire direction by a com- 
pass set in the rim of the dome, he sub- 
merged, drove forward. 

The water was emerald-green, clearer 
than it semed from the surface. He swam 
into a gigantic underwater forest — sea-trees 
with delicate silver fronds pinned to the 
bottom by the slenderest of stalks, sea-vines 
rising straight as pencils of light from the 
depths, with shining globes spaced along the 
stalks. 

These might not be true plants, thought 
Magnus Ridolph, but possibly groups of 
polyps like the anemones of Earth. And, 
recalling the sting of the Portuguese man- 
of-war, he gave the sea-vines a wide berth. 

Everywhere swam sardines, shoal upon 
shoal, sardines by the millions, and the light 
in the head-dome glinted on the flitting silver 
sides like moonlight along a wind-ruffled lake. 

Mcignus Ridolph looked about to see if 
possibly the fish he had liberated were near. 
If so he was indistinguishable among his 
fellows. 

On he drove, suspended between the mir- 
roring under-surface and the gloom of the 
depths, past shoulders of quiet mud, across 
sudden deeps, threading the groves of the 
sea-trees. 

He rose once more to the surface, adjusted 
his course. The cannery was a ramshackle 
huddle far back along the gray shore. He 
submerged, continued. 

A WHITE wall glimmered ahead. He 
veered, slowed and saw the barrier to 


be a submarine dyke, a rampart of felsite 
or quartzite, striding mightily across the 
ocean floor. He drifted close to the wall, rose 
to the top face — a flat course of rock fifteen 
feet below the surface. 

Magnus Ridolph floated quietly, consider- 
ing. This was approximately where Donnels 
had blasted, possibly a little further out to 
sea. He turned, swam slowly through the 
lime-green water, just above the flat white 
rock-face. He halted, floated motionless. 

Below him several-score bubbles clung to 
the stone, large, globes arrayed in ordered 
rows. They seemed flexible, sv/ayed slightly 
to random currents. Within, Magnus Ri- 
dolph glimpsed small intricate objects and a 
lurid flickering light came from several. 

Magnus Ridolph suddenly became aware 
of the press of fish, thicker than anything he 
had seen to date. They were pushing slowly 
in upon him and now, noting the hyper- 
develc^d crania, the bulging eyes, the care- 
ful purposive movements, Magnus Ridolph 
felt that he knew a great deal about the 
Chandaria cannery. 

He also experienced a sense of uneasiness. 
Why were several of the fish nudging a 
weighted bubble in his direction? 

He whipfjed out the Barnett charts, found 
number one, gesticulated to the sequence 
which conveyed the notion of friendly intent. 

Several of the fish darted close, followed 
his motions carefully. One of them — no dif- 
ferent, so far as Magnus Ridolph could tell, 
from the multitude — came clase, tapped on 
head-dome. 

1 — 2 — 1 — “opening communication.” 

Magnus Ridolph sighed, relaxed in the 
diving suit, indicated symbols on the charts. 

“I . . . come . . . purpose . . . help 
. . . class of you.” 

“Doubt. Class of you . . . destructive 
(interrogative) ?” 

“Class of me ... in building . . . friends 
(negative) of me. I . . . constructive. Friend 
. . . class of you.” 

“Class of you . . . purpose ... kill . . . 
class of us.” 

Magnus Ridolph struggled with the ele- 
mental concepts. Valuable as the charts 
were, conveying an exact sense was like re- 
pairing a watch with a pipe-wrench. 

“Complex . . . thought. Qass of me . . . 
carry . . . you . . . this place. Construct 
. . . thinking ... of you . . . stronger.” 

A sudden small movement flurried 
through the throng, silver sides twinkled. 


THE SUB-STANDARD SARDINES 


Magnus Ridoiph listened — the hum oi a 
propeller. He rose to the surface. Not a 
hundred yards distant was the rowboat, 
propelled by an outboard motor. The man 
m the boat sighted Magnus Ridoiph, 
swerved. In one hand he carried a long tube 
with a shoulder stock. Magnus Ridoiph sub- 
merged quickly. 

The propeller droned louder, closer. The 
black underbody of the little boat plunged 
directly at him. 

Magnus Ridoiph threw the propulsion 
dial hard to its stop. Water blasted back 
from the jet, scattering the fish, and Magnus 
Ridoiph dove off at an angle. 

The boat turned with him, following swift- 
ly. The propeller halted, the boat slowed. 
Under the surface came the tube, pointing at 
Magnus Ridoiph. It twitched, ejected a little 
projectile which bubbled fast toward him. 

Magnus Ridoiph doubled fast to the side 
and the spew of his drive caught the missile, 
diverted it slightly. From behind came a 
tremendous explosion— jarring Magnus Ri- 
doiph like a hammer blow. And the boat 
was once more after him. 

Magnus Ridoiph blinked, shook his head. 
He twisted, dove up at a slant for the boat. 
Up under the light boat he came, the head- 
dome under one side of the hull. Full power 
on the thrust-unit — up and over went the 
boat. Sprawling into the water toppled an 
awkward dark shape and the rocket-tube 
plunged steeply into the darkness Ijelow. The 
tx)at filled with water, settled into the 
gloom. 

Magnus Ridoiph surfaced, placidly 
watched Naile, the laboratory technician, 
paddling for land. He was a clumsy swim- 
mer and the shore was a mile distant. If he 
reached the shore, there would still be sev- 
eral miles of morass to traverse back to the 
cannery. After a moment Magnus Ridoiph 
sunk below the surface, returned to the great 
white underwater rampart. 

J OEL Karamor strode back and forth, 
hands behind his back, forehead fur- 
rowed. Magnus Ridoiph, at his ease in an 
old-fashioned leather armchair, sipped a 
glass of sherry. This was Joel Karamor’s 
business office, high in the French Pavilion 
Tower — one of the landmarks of Tran, the 
miracle-city on the .shores of Lake Sahara. 

“Yes,” muttered Karamor, “but where 
was Donnels all this time? Where is he 
now ?” 


109 

Magnus Ridoiph coughed slightly, 
touched his white beard, this once more 
crisp, well-cropped. 

“Ah, Donnels,” he mused. “Did you value 
him as a partner?” 

Karamor froze stock-still, stared at his 
visitor. “What do you mean ? Where is Don- 
nels?” 

Magnus Ridoiph touched the tips of his 
fingers together. “I’ll continue my report. 
I returned to the dock and as it was some- 
what after sunset, very dull and gloomy, I 
fancy I was not observed. A large number 
of the intelligent fish, I may add, accom- 
panied me for reasons of their own, into 
which I did not inquire. 

“I assumed that Donnels would be stand- 
ing on the wharf, probably armed and emo- 
tionally keyed to shoot without permitting 
me to present my authority from you. I Ije- 
lieve I have mentioned that the wharf pro- 
vided the only access from the cannery to 
the ocean — the shore being an impassable 
swamp. 

“If Donnels were standing on the wharf, 
he would completely dominate the ground. 
My problem then was to find a means to 
reach solid ground without being perceived 
by Donnels.” 

Karamor resumed his pacing. “Yes,” he 
muttered. “Go on.” 

Magnus Ridoiph sipped his sherry. “A 
suitable expedient had occurred to me. Un- 
derstand now, Joel, I could not, at the risk 
of my life, climb boldly up on the wharf.” 

“I understand perfectly. What did you 
do?” 

“I swam through the trap into the con- 
centration pond. But I still would be exposed 
if I tried to emerge from the water, so . . .” 

“So?” 

“So I swam to the gate into the cannery, 
waited till it opened and propelled myself 
into the chute toward the eviscerator. ” 

“Hah!” snorted Joel Karamor. “Just the 
grace of God I’m not opening a can of sar- 
dines and finding you. Canned Magnus. 
Canned Ridoiph!” 

“No,” said the white-bearded sage. 
“There was little danger of the eviscerator. 
The cliute is set at a gentle slope ... As you 
may imagine, the operator of the machine 
was startled when I appeared before him. 
Fortunately for me he was a Capellan, ex- 
cellent at routine tasks, short chi initiative, 
and he raised no special outcry when I rose 
frt«n the chute. 


STARTLING STORIES 


110 

“I removed the diving suit, explained to 
the Capellan that I was testing the slope of 
the channel— which seemed to satisfy him — 
and then I strolled out on the wharf. 

“As I expected, Donnels was standing 
there, watching across the water. He did not 
hear me — I walk rather quietly. It now oc- 
curred to me that inasmuch as Donnels was 
young and athletic, of choleric disposition 
and furthermore carried a hand-weapon, my 
bargaining position was rather poor. Accord- 
ingly I pushed him into the water.” 

“You did! Then what?” 

Magnus Ridolph put on a doleful coun- 
tenance. 

“Then .what, confound it?” bawled Kara- 
mor. 

“A tragic occurrence,” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph. He shook his head. “I might have 
foreseen it had I thought. You remember, I 
mentioned the fish following me back from 
the dike.” 

Karamor stared. “You mean?” 

“Donnels drowned,” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph. “The fish drowned him. Feeble in- 
dividually, in the mass they drove him away 
from the wharf, pulled him under. A dis- 
tressing sight. I was very upset.” 

Karamor paced once, twice, across the 
room, flung himself into a chair opposite 
Magnus Ridolph. 

“An accident, hey? Poor unfortunate 
Donnels, hey ? Is that the story ? The trouble 
is, Magnus, I know you too well. The whole 
thing sounds too precise. These — ah, intelli- 
gent sardines” — he made a sardonic mouth 
— “had no idea Donnels would be pushed 
into the water?” 

“Well,” said Magnus Ridolph thought- 
fully. “I did mention that he wmuld probably 
be waiting on the wharf. And the Barnett 
charts, though very useful of course, are not 
infallible. I suppose it’s not impossible that 
the fish assumed — ” 

“Never mind, never mind,” said Karamor 
wearily. 

“Look at it this way,” suggested Magnus 
Ridolph easily. “If Donnels had not at- 
tempted to blast and poison the fish they 
would not ha^'e drowned him. If Donnels 
had not sent Naile to blast me out of the 
water and had not been waiting on the dock 
for the honor of shooting me personally I 
would not have pushed him in.” 

“Yes,” said Karamor, “and if you hadn’t 
stolen his suit he probaWy wouldn’t have 
been waiting for you.” 


Magnus Ridolph pursed his lips. “If we 
pursue the matter of ultimate responsibility 
to the limit we might arrive at you, who, as 
Donnels partner, is legally responsible for 
his actions.” 

ARAMOR sighed. “How did the 
whole thing start?” 

“A natural evolution,” said Magnus Ri- 
dolph. “Donnels and Naile, in stocking 
Chandaria with sardines, naturally selected 
the best sardines possible. Then in the lab- 
oratory, while waiting for the fish to multi- 
ply, they encouraged mutations to improve 
the stock even further. 

"One of these mutations proved highly in- 
telligent, and I fancy this gave Daniels his 
big idea. Why not breed a strain of intelligent 
fish which could be trained to work for him, 
like sheep-dogs or better, like the Judas- 
goat which leads the sheep into the abbatoir ? 

“They set to work breeding, cross-breed- 
ing, and indeed a very intelligent sardine 
resulted. Those which would cooperate with 
Donnels rendered very valuable service, en- 
abling him to can fish without going to the 
trouble of catching them himself. 

“A few of the fish, the most intelligent, 
preferred freedom and founded a colony 
near the dike. Donnels soon learned of this 
colony because all but the most servile of his 
Judas fish swam off and joined their 
brothers. 

“Taming these fish, teaching them, was a 
laborious task and Donnels decided to ex- 
terminate the colony. He also feared that 
the intelligent fish might outnumber the nor- 
mal ones and refuse to be led blindly into 
his concentration pond. He tried blasting 
and poison from the surface but was unsuc- 
cessful, as the fish could see him coming. 
So he ordered a diving-suit from Rhodope. 

"Meanwhile the fish had launched a count- 
er-offensive. They had no weapons — they 
could not attack Daniels directly. But they 
knew the purpose of the cannery, that it 
packed sardines for human consumption. 

“They developed the skill to build the bub- 
bles on the dike— a secretion, I believe — and 
prepare a series of offensive substances. 
Then a great number of ordinary sardines 
were captured, packed with these substances, 
sent into the cannery to be canned and ex- 
ported.” 

Joel Karamor rose abruptly to his feet, 
once more paced the glossy floor. “And what 
happened to Naile?” 



Ill 


THE SUB-STANDARD SARDINES 


“He showed up a day later. A mere tool.” 

Karamor shook his head. “I suppose the 
ffent is a total loss. Did you make arrange- 
ments to evacuate the help?” 

Magnus Ridolph widened his eyes in sur- 
prise. “None whatever. Was I supposed to 
do so?” 

“I gave you full powers,” snapped Kar- 
amor. “You should have seen to it.” . 

A buzzer sounded. Karamor pushed the 
button. A soft voice spoke. Karamor’s brin- 
dle-gray hair rose in a startled ruff. - 

"Cargo of canned sardines ? Hold on.” He 
turned to Magnus Ridolph. “Who dispatched 
the sardines? What’s going on here — and 
there ?” 

Magnus Ridolph shrugged. “The cannery 
is functioning as before — under new man- 
agement. Using my powers I made the neces- 
sary arrangements. Your share of the profits 
shall be as before.” 

Karamor halted in mid-stride. “So? And 
who is my partner? Naile?” 

“By no means,” said Magnus Ridolph. 
“He has nothing to offer.” 

“Who then.^” bellowed Karamor. 

“Naturally, the colony (rf intelligent sar- 


dines I told you about.” 

•‘What!” 

“Yes,” said Magnus Ridolph. “You are 
now associated commercially with a shoal 
of sardines. The Sardine-Karamor Com- 
pany.” 

“My word,” husked Karamor. “My 
word !” 

“The advantages to all concerned are ob- 
vious,” said Magnus Ridolph. “You are as- 
sured of efficient management with high- 
grade raw material guaranteed. The sar- 
dines receive whatever civilized amenities 
they desire.” 

Karamor was silent for some minutes. He 
turned a narrow eye on the bland Magnus 
Ridolph. 

“I detect the Ridolph touch in this scheme. 
The characteristic lack of principle, the cal- 
culated outing of orthodox practise . . .” 

"Tut, tut,” .said Magnus Ridolph. “Not 
at all, not at all.” 

Karamor snorted. “Do you deny that the 
whole program was your idea ?” 

“Well.” said Magnus Ridolph carefully, 
“I admit that I pointed out to the fishes the 
advantages of the arrangement.” 


* 

Tbuv TthdhodA “flmdinq' ihn St^oUiA 

T he effect of recent scientific developments upon astronomy may well 
presage a completely new and adult development for the oldest of 
all the sciences. Apart from the new 200-inch telescope on Mount 
Palomar, which has already expanded by eight times the astronomical uni- 
verse, new techniques and devices are increasing our knowledge of other 
stars and planets almost daily. 

However, beginning with the wide-angled and non-cumbersome Schmich 
type photographic telescopes, there are several entirely new methods of 
drtermining the nature erf the universe about us. 

Among them are the Coronagraphs, which enable astronomers to study 
the sun under eclipse conditions at any time it is above the horizon and nert 
shrouded by clouds — light-sensitive cells able to note and record variations 
in light far more accurately than the human eye, as well as to see the invisible heatlight of stars 
and planets recordable by older methods — the new field of radioastronomy, which by means of 
high-frequency rays such as radar enables astronomers to gain increased knowledge of Earth’s 
iq>per atmosphere and the relatively closer objects in space. 

As still newer methods develop in these already established and other fields of astronomical in- 
vestigation, we can expect to make revolutionary new discoveries as to what is really happening 
in the universe. 

Not only will man benefit on his own home planet by this wider knowledge but it will pro- 
vide the data upon which the ever closer approaching space flights will be based. 

— Carter Sprague 




MAHTIAN 




hi. PHILLIPS 


What were those strange flashes 
of light that destroyed cities 
of Shentol and threatened Mars? 


marked the daylight side, a dark, slender 
line burst in a slowly billowing golden cloud. 
Minute sparks leaped and glowed, and the 
lights of a city went out. That city’s lights 
had been burning for five hundred years. 

Swift, stabbing flashes, a brighter one, 
then smoke or cloud surging up to the limits 
of the atmosphere. Another age-old city’s 


CHAPTER I 


Men of Aftwan 


A gain came that swift flash of colored 
light across the face of the planet. 
The shadowed side was still for a 
time, then from the thin crescent which 


CESTLRE 


113 


STARTLING STORIES 


114 

fights winked and were gone. 

The giant telescope picked up a slight vi- 
bration in the thin Martian air and the image 
of the planet flickered, swam wildly for a 
moment, then steadied again. Vraughn ic 
Dalfca Sconnefecot, chief astronomer of the 
Planetary Observatory, peering into his tele- 
scope at the bewildering and mysterious be- 
havior of this neighboring world, twitched 
with impatient excitement. 

For six months the planet had been be- 
having in this unnatural manner and had 
aroused the intense interest of the Martian 
observer. He had first noticed disturbances 
of a similar sort as Mars’ next inner neigh- 
bor was approaching superior conjunction. 
Then, as it neared the sun and passed be- 
hind it, observation became impossible and 
ic Dalfca waited impatiently, convinced that 
the phenomena would have ceased before the 
third planet of the Sun’s family was again 
visible. He was not a little surprised, as 
the planet approached its greatest elongation, 
affording a better and batter view of its 
night side, to discover that its strange activ- 
ity had not ceased, but had spread even more 
widely. 

The Martian gazed speculatively at the 
bright, rather greenish star that hung with 
such deceptive calm in the clear, star-spar- 
kling Martian sky. For five hundred years 
the astronomers of the Planetary Observa- 
tory had nightly watched the lights of cities 
on the inner planet and never had they seen 
any such exhibition as was now transpiring. 
For more than five hundred years they had 
known that life existed on the other planet, 
hut it was not until the light-condensing and 
amplifying telescope had been developed that 
they had finally seen the lights of cities. 

Now something of tremendous import to 
those cities was extinguishing their lights. 
Ic Dalfca was not a little frightened. Suppose 
some dread disease of planets was attacking 
that greenly glowing sphere. Would Mars 
be next ? Would those leaping sparks, those 
vicious flashes of light attack Mars next, 
to destroy her age-old cities and leave a 
dead and darkened globe to circle the sun? 

T he Martian astronomer knew that the 
sparks and flashes were not volcanic. 
Volcanoes did not leap across continents to 
burst again into short-lived, flaming life. 
Meteors would have flamed as they struck 
the atmosphere. These flashes came frcMU the 
surface. 


Ic Dalfca leaned again over the telescope. 
The green star vanished and reappeared as 
a crescent moon. But in the night-shadowed 
hemisphere the bursting lights still flickered 
and danced as they had done for the past 
half-year. The c4>server swung the spectro- 
scope into place, preparatory to photograph- 
ing the planet once more. The radio-vision 
signal buzzed and a tiny light glowed in one 
corner of the darkened observatory. 

Ic Dalfca made his way in the darkness 
past the huge, delicately poised telescope and 
switched on the radio-vision plate. A dim 
light east a vague, weird illumination upon 
the instruments. For a few seconds the 
vision-plate remained blurred, then it fo- 
cused and the face of another Martian gazed 
out at Ic Dalfca. 

The species upon Mars which had fought 
the long, bitter, uphill fight of evolutionary 
progress, to stand at last on the lonely heights 
of intelligence, resembled a human being only 
superficially. The Martian “man” was about 
eight feet in height. Fie had no huge, bulging 
chest, no wide, flaring ears or thin, pipe- 
like limbs. Flis body was heavy and solid and 
bore four limbs The species had risen upon 
the hinder pair of limbs, releasing the front 
pair for purpo.ses other than locomotion. 
This permitted the development of hands, 
capable of conveying to the dawning mind 
facts and sensory impressions which paws 
could never do. 

The Martian fore-limbs had evolved far 
from anything resembling paws. In the place 
of hands were long, fragile, intricate digits, 
each “wrist” supporting a score or more of 
such fingers of varying lengths and shapes. 
The dexterity with which ic Dalfca controlled 
his clusters of fingers revealed the complexity 
of the motor centers of his brain. 

The head of the Martian- “man” had long 
ago lost all suggestion of animal ancestry; 
it was round and heavily furred, the long, 
thick fur concealing almost completely the 
tiny side-closing, double pairs of jaws. Two 
large eyes, guarded by a tough, transparent, 
chitinlike substance, were beneath the swell- 
ing brow and a third insectlike, compound 
eye, smaller than the other two gleamed like 
a tiny jewel in the forehead. The sturdy 
lower limbs were jointed twice and terminat- 
ed in a compact, fused pad wherein could 
be traced the larger and stronger digits of 
the hand, here united for nearly their entire 
length. 

The body was narrow near the joint cor- 


HAimAN Gi^nmE 


ns 


responding to tbe hip aad widened slightly 
as it approached the shoulders, but a certain 
rigidity concealed organs and muscles en- 
tirely. This was accounted for by the fact 
that the skin of the Martian was of a hard, 
shell-like tissue, reddish, with but slight elas- 
^ ticity. At the joints it was convoluted some- 
what in the manner of a bellows. 

On a planet so remote from the Sun, re- 
sistance to cold was a necessity, and the spe- 
cies best suited to endure extreme cold was 
most likely to survive. So the skin of the 
Martian was almost perfectly thermostatic. 
Body heat was radiated slowly. Oxidation 
was far less r^d, little oxygen being nec- 
essary to support life, thus admirably fitting 
the creature for survival in the thin, frigid 
atmosphere of Mars. 

So ic Dalfca did somewhat resemble a gi- 
gantic man, but a nearer approach would 
Jhave frightened a Terrestrial visitor into be- 
lieving himself in the presence of a Chinese 
; devil. Actually the Martian was not hideous 
— merely different, fantastic. 

He apparently knew the other, whose 
i image slwwed in the vision-plate, for ic Dalfca 
: spoke famiHariy. His speech was an in- 
Itricate series of faint clicks and clear, bell- 
Hke sounds. 

“You are at your telescope late tonight, 
Varb,” said ic Dalfca, with genial mockery in 
his voice. “I did not think you preceptors 
were so diligent.” 

T he other astronomer clicked his jaws 
rapidly in mock irritation. He was Varb 
il Thistacan, an instructor at the ancient 
teaching-centre at Bab-vir-Gratvon, one of 
Mars’ oldest cities, about one hundred miles 
south of the Planetary Observatory, where ic 
Dalfca, holding the governmental office of 
chief astronomer, was stationed. 

“What has had your attention tonight?” 
asked ic Dalfca. “The group of binaries 
that you and that southern observatory have 
been concentrating on recently?” 

“No.” II Thistacan became serious. “As 
you know, Bab-vir-Gratvon is working on 
the course to be followed by the space-ship 
which the Interplanetary Society is launch- 
ing. I have been computing the orbits of the 
asteroids they are most likely to meet in 
crossing the asteroid belt. Remembering your 
asserticwi that Shentol, the third planet, 
which is behaving so strangely, is for that 
reason more worthy a visit than Chavroe, 
all night have I watched your green enigma 



S OME stories are forgot- 
ten almost as soon as 
they are prinfed. Others 
stand the test of time. 

Becaose "Martian Ges- 
ture,” by Alexander M. Phil- 
lips, has stood this test, it 
has been nominated for 
SCIENTIFICTION’S HALL 


OF FAME and is reprinted here. 


In each issue we will honor one of the most out- 
standing fantasy classics of all time as selected by 
our readers. 


We hope in this way to bring a new permanence 
to the science fiction gems of yesterday and to per- 
form a real service to the science fiction devotees 
of today and tomorrow. 

Nominate your own favorites! Send a letter or 
postcard to The Editor, STARTLING STORIES, 10 
East 4<Wi St., New York 16, N. Y. All suggestions 
are more Hian wetcome! 


and I am definitely opposed to making it the 
destination of our space-ship. What unpre- 
dictable dangers may await us is worthy of 
serious consideration, and Shentol is evident- 
ly in violent agitation.” 

“No danger is unpredictable,” interrupted 
ic Dalfca. "We can determine gravity, mean 
temperature, and the nature and density of 
the atmosphere. Our explorers will land 
upon the planet fully prepared for any physi- 
cal difficulties they may meet.” 

“What, then, is occurring upon Shentol,” 
demanded Varb il Thistacan, “which is of 
such serious nature as to destroy entire 
cities ? What are the flashes of light upon her 
surface? And what is happening to Shen- 
tol’s atmosphere?” 

Ic Dalfca tapped impatiently upon tbe 
studded control board. 

“That,” he insisted, “is what we must 
know. Have you thought that Aftwan, our 
own planet, may be next? Possibly some 
magnetic disturbance is responsible, induced 
by the tremendously potent field of the sun. 
A visit to Shentol might enlighten us so 
that we would be prepared in the event of a 
like disturbance here. It would not be nec- 
essary for the interplanetary travelers to land 
upon Shentol.” 

“True.” The small image of il Thistacan 
looked more cheerfully from the vision-plate. 
“But whatever knowledge they might bring 
back would be of only academic importance. 
We could do nothing to avert or control a 
catastrophe of sirch magnitude.” 

Ic I^fca laughed. To human ears it 
would have sounded like the whirring of 



STARTLING STCmiES 


116 

minute machinery. 

“Varb,” he said, “you are timid. You may 
speak for Chavroe, if you wish, but at tte 
meeting of the Interplanetary League, in 
three days, I shall do all in my power to 
make Shentol our destination.” 

“But they would not have time enough 
to plot the course to Shentol,” objected il 
Thistacan. “Soon it will be receding and the 
voyage would have to be postponed until 
it had again revolved about the sun and re- 
turned.” 

“All that would be necessary is the check- 
ing of tlie computations,” replied ic Dalfca. 

The little image in the vision plate flicked 
its hand before its face in the customary Mar- 
tian, or Aftwanian, salutation ; then the plate 
blurred and became dark. Ic Dalfca re- 
turned to the spectroscope and the pho- 
tographic plate behind it. 

Presently he withdrew the plate, and, 
switching on a light above the observer’s 
seat, stared at the spectrum thoughtfully. 

“Strange,” he murmured. “ Compounds of 
several elements not native to the amosphere 
are certainly being released.” 

The light seemed tiny in the huge observa- 
tory. Darkness encircled it and seemed to 
press in upon it. The cold was bone-crack- 
ing, but ic Dalfca was unaware of it. Some 
flying thing, which had wandered in, blun- 
dered about the vast dome in nielancholy con- 
fusion. 

The fluttering of the flying creature 
aroused ic Dalfca from thought and he ex- 
tinguished the light and left the observatory. 
Outside, the level, monotonous landscape of 
Mars extended to the dark line of the hori- 
zon. Above arched the luminous, blue-black 
sky, brilliant with stars whose light pierced 
the cold, thin air with tmearthly intensity. 

P HOBOS, the inner moon of Mars, was 
climbing the westerly sky, and its 
scarred but brilliant face shed a pale illumina- 
tion upon its parent body, revealing the miles 
of nodding, reddish grass which carpeted the 
flat, Martian plain. No sign of path or road- 
way was visible, nor did a building other than 
the observatory break the level surface. Mars 
was old, as were her people, and her water 
and air had eroded hef mountains until but 
a few low, rolling hills remained to mark 
a forgotten youth. And now her air and 
water, their work done, were following the 
mountains into the all-engulfing sea of the 
past. Soon the planet would attain the per- 


fect, unchanging stillness of an airless, wa- 
terless waste where nothing ever moved but 
the sharp, black, crawling shadows. 

The inner moon did little to obscure the 
light of the thickly clustered stars ; on Earth 
a light of such brilliance in the sky would 
have blotted out half of them. Nor did it 
hide the glow of Bab-vir-Gratvon which, a 
hundred miles to the south, sent an arching 
fan of light above the horizon — a signal in 
tliat vast emptiness that there dwelt Life. 

Ic Dalfca walked across the broad espla- 
nade, and, leaning on the strangely carven 
parapet, stared into the southern sky. High 
above the glow of Bab-vir-Gratvon a bril- 
liant green star blazed steadily, and it was at 
this that ic Dalfca gazed. A huge, wingless 
air-liner, lights ablaze, swept silently down 
upon him, following a straight, invisible Kne 
that finally carried it into the glow of the 
southern city, but ic Dalfca seemed unaware 
of it. And so the dawn found him when it 
burst, unheralded by any refractive glow, in 
the eastern sky. 

He surveyed the bright and sunny land- 
scape, sparkling redly in the morning sun- 
light, then returned to the observatory, and 
his living quarters. 


CHAPTER II 
The Interplanetary League 


O N a morning three days later, the Mar- 
tian astronomer ran his small air-car 
from the base oi the huge observatory. His , 
assistant, a young student from the school 
at Bab-vir-Gratvon, and the small staff of 
servants and mechanics which the civil au- 
thorities had assigned to the Planetairy Ob- 
servatory watched as the air-car took off, to 
strike a course to the west, until it was 
nothing but a silvery, sun-reflecting spark 
high in the deep blue sky. 

Three hours later ic Dalfca, having tra- 
versed nine hundred miles of unbroken, life- 
less plain, discerned upon the quiet sky line, 
level as an ocean horizon, the first faint hint 
of color other than the unvarying red of the 
plains-grass. First came a shadowy green 
that became a wide band under him, mingling 
with the reddish grass. It widened swiftly, 
replacing the jffains grass until a new, ver- 
dant vegetation filled the landscape. 


MARTIAN 

And then one of Mars' rarest elements 
appeared. Water. A glistening pool flashed 
beneath ic Dalfca’s air-car and the Martian 
peered down through the clear, transparent, 
glass-like metal that formed the prow of his 
craft, for the sight of water not in pipes or 
containers was fascinating. 

More and more of such pools appeared, 
sparkling in the sunlight, and the ground 
revealed itself as a vast swamp. The vege- 
tation became denser, and presently the air- 
car swept across a hroad channel of frigid 
waters from the melting polar ice cap. 

Ic Delfca flung open a window, admitting 
a thin, icy breeze. In the brilliant sun the 
air-car was getting uncomfortably warm even 
for the insensitive Martian. 

Ahead suddenly, on the horizon, stood 
Thuron, brilliant, sun-sparkling, muti-col- 
ored, its towers rising in airy beauty against 
the pure blue of the sky. 

News that he brought some startling pro- 
posal to the Interplanatory League meeting 
had arrived before him for, as ic Datfca 
climbed from his air-car on the landing roof 
of the League’s headquarters, he was met by 
a chattering group of news disseminator 
operators, eager for information. He pushed 
his way through, refusing to explain what 
had brought him to the meeting. 

Varb il Thistacan was standing near the 
lift which communicated with the Hall of 
Debate on the ground floor. Ic Dalfca hur- 
ried to him. Officials of the Interplanetary 
League were also awaiting him, and good- 
naturedly surrounded him until they had 
gained the meeting hall. 

As they entered the famous doorway made 
of the first ore brought back from the inner 
moon — a. white, lustrous metal, majestically 
ornamented with a symbolic grouping by the 
Martian sculptor, Zher Gwatver — ic Dalfca 
thrust a flat case into il Thistacan’s hands. 

“The computed course to Shentol,” he 
murmured. “It may be best that you have 
it now.” 

The Hall of Debate was a huge room — 
actually three rooms, for two ante-cham- 
bers, lofty, vaulted naves, preceded it, al- 
though they were separated from the main 
Hall by soaring, airy columns. 

The Hall was circular and domed, the 
central vault sweeping upward until reason 
urged that it must fall in upon itself. Op- 
posite the entrance, a speakers’ rostrum, in- 
set in the wall, occupied a quarter of the 
circumference, and members of the Inter- 


GESTURE 117 

planetary League thronged the serried rows 
of seats. 

As ic Dalfca passed down the long aisle 
between slender, graceful columns of the 
white metal, he was met by a battery of in- 
terested, questioning eyes. Jarl vo Spuritwan, 
the president or chairman of the League, 
greeted him as he mounted the rostrum, and 
conducted the astronomer to the forefront 
of the platform. 

Ic Dalfca looked out over the attentive 
members of the League. He was well-known 
to all of them. He liad done important work 
in the development of their space-vessel ; he 
was one of Mars’ foremost astronomers. He 
depended largely on his prestige to sway 
their decision to the course he favored, for 
ic Delfca was well aware of the awe which 
the dangers facing these planetary navigators 
inspired. Take chances they would, but to 
court unknown and fearful doom was an- 
other matter. The astronomer must make his 
argument impressive. 

W ITH but the briefest of introduc- 
tions, he began peaking. He out- 
lined the history of ffie Interplanetary 
League and pictured the tremendous possi- 
bilities in the successful navigation of space. 
He mentioned difficulties whidi had been met 
and eventually overcome, and praised thq 
courage of those who were about to put the 
results of their efforts to this most serious 
test 

The visit to the inner moon ic Dalfca 
pointed out as a proof of the practicability 
of space navigation while admitting the 
vastly greater dangers of an interplanetary 
flight. He described how Chavroe, the larg- 
est planet of the Sun’s family, had been select- 
ed as the destination of the space-ship, and 
broached the purpose of his own visit to the 
meeting, describing his months of observa- 
tion of the inner planet, Shentol, the eccen- 
tric disturbances upon its surface, its gradual 
disappearance as it passed behind the Sun, 
and his impatient awaiting its reappear- 
ance. 

He showed photographs of the planet on 
a large screen; a running fire of comment 
swept through the audience as the unexplain- 
able flashes of light sparkled across the dark 
side of Shentol. Ic Dalfca emphasized that 
they were found nowhere else in the Uni- 
verse. 

“What these lights portend,” concluded 
ic Dalfca, “to either Shentol, our neighbor- 


118 STARTLING STORIES 


ing planet, or to Aftwan, our home, should 
they appear here, we cannot say. No in- 
struments in our possession are powerful 
enough to reveal the source or nature of 
these flashes, although their devastating 
character can be guessed, as we see city after 
city winking into oblivion as the flashes en- 
compass them. That the very atmosphere of 
this neighboring world is undergoing some 
stupendous alteration is apparent. 

“To my mind, the doom that is overtaking 
Shentol is of the gravest importance not 
only to the inhabitants of that world, but 
to ourselves, for Shentol and Aftwan are 
subject to the same laws, guided by the 
same Sun, and the present affliction of one 
may become the- fate of the other. For these 
reasons, you of Aftwan, I say Shentol should 
be our destination in the forthcoming at- 
tempt to bridge space to a neighboring 
world." 

Ic Dalfca bowed serenely and quietly sat 
down beside il Thistacan. 

“You had better go now,” he murmured 
in the surprised scientist’s ear, “and take 
with you the computations of the course to 
Shentol.” 

II Thistacan looked at him amazed, but 
got up and went out. 

Jarl VO Spuritwan had risen at the close 
of the astronomer’s address, asked the at- 
tention of the audience, and began speaking. 

“You are exciting yourselves unnecessar- 
ily,” he said. “The danger of attempting 
to land upon this disturbed planet would be. 
great, and would suffice, I think, to deter us 
from attempting the flight, but another and 
even more decisive factor makes it impos- 
sible. Shentol has passed opposition and 
each day carries it further away from us. 
Shortly it will be beyond our limits of travel. 
The time is far too short to permit the com- 
puting of the course our projectile would 
take in reaching Shentol, and we would be 
forced to wait until the planet was again ap- 
proaching opposition. 

“I feel confident that the League does 
not care to postpone the flight in order to 
await a favorable time for attempting a 
flight to Shentol. A later flight might be 
made to. this planet, when the phenomena 
now apparent have moderated and our as- 
tronauts are more familiar with the nature 
of space navigation.” 

Ic Dalfca rose. “I have already computed 
the course to Shentol,” fie announced, “tak- 
ing every possibleTactor into consideration.” 


This threw the meeting into a fresh ex- 
citement and the high dome of the Hall 
echoed to the strange buzzing and whirring 
speech of the Martians. Several rose, but 
could not be heard in the general din. 

Jarl VO Spuritwan began calling for order, 
and the noise subsided. 

“I see no point to any further discussion,” 
he said, with irritation. “We have agreed 
that Chavroe shall be the planet visited; it 
is the largest of the planets, its intricate 
system of nine moons is of great astronom- 
ical interest, and the mystery of its cloud-en- 
shrouded surface has long called for solu- 
tion. Shentol is possibly on the point of dis- 
ruption as a planet, and the danger of even 
approaching it closely is incalculable. I feel 
that I am speaking for the League when 
I say that we do not wish to expose our 
courageous astronauts to such unpredictable 
hazards.” 

OUD cries of “Shentol! Shentol!” 
broke in upon him, and vo Spuritwan 
ceased speaking. 

“Let us visit Shentol!” came from the 
rear of the Hall, and a proposed member of 
the rocket-ship was seen standing. 

Ic Dalfca sprang to the edge of the plat- 
form and raised his hand. 

“I would like to assure you,” he said, 
“that disruption does not threaten Shentol! 
The mystery of her flashing lights has some 
other explanation. Dangerous, possibly, but 
I think we should seek that explanation, for 
the welfare of Aftwan.” 

Another member of the rocket-ship crew 
arose. “As for the danger,” he said in a calm 
voice, “there seems little choice between 
the two planets. Chavroe’s enormous gravity 
might well prove too strong for us to con- 
quer. We might be unable to return, and 
what lies beneath its cloud blanket is as 
much a mystery as the bursts of light upon 
Shentol. I say, let it be Shentol!” 

“And I !’; “And I !” “For Shentol !” Cries 
came from all over the auditorium. Half 
the audience were on their feet. 

Vo Spuritwan once more called for order. 

“This cannot be decided hurriedly,” he 
said when the League members had quieted. 
“These calculations of the path in space 
which our rocket-ship will follow must be 
checked. But before that, the decision must 
be put to a vote.” 

“A vote!” cried the audience." Vote 
now!” 



MARTIAN GESTURE 


Vo Spuritwan was about to protest, but 
the thing was taken out of his hands and 
in a short time the vote was completed. 

The League had voted overwhelmingly 
to substitute Shentol for Qiavroe as the des- 
tination of their rocket-ship. 


CHAPTER III 
Off for Shentol! 


F or some little while nothing was done. 

Vo Spuritwan was deep in a serious 
discussion witli members he had consulted 
previously. The audience had broken up into 
excitedly talking and gesticulating groups. 
Members erf the rocket-ship crew were gath- 
ered about ic Dalfca, questioning him about 
their mysterious objective. 

Presently vo Spuritwan faced the Hall, and 
attracted the attention of the League. 

“Members of the Interplanetary League,” 
he said, “one final consideration remains 
which I must place before you. In your pres- 
ent enthusiasm for the highly perilous solv- 
ing of the mysteries of our neighbor in space, 
Shentol, I beg you not to set aside uncon- 
sidered what I will now tell you. Nofquan- 
quot Gralon, the president of the Architec- 
tural Ore Distributors, has informed me that 
the ninth moon of Chavroe contains large 
deposits of qualo. For a rocket-load of this 
valuable ore, the distributors are prepared 
to make it possible for the Interplanetary 
League to construct and operate two extra 
rocket-ships. 

“In view of this offer and the other ob- 
jections which have been raised, I suggest 
that we reconsider the matter of the planet to 
be visited. In return for the danger of a 
visit to Shentol we gain nothing but ab- 
stract knowledge.” 

Vor Fanarb Justicod, the captain of the 
rocket-ship, arose. 

“We are men of science, not merchants,” 
he said seriously, “and it poorly becomes us 
to don the characters of traders.” 

There was something so final in the man- 
ner in which the audience received this, that 
VO Spuritwan realized, the decision haul irrev- 
ocably been made. However, he made one 
last effort. Turning to ic Dalfca, he said : 

“If you will give me your computations 
of the space-course the rocket will fedlow, I 


119 

will have them checked immediately. If they 
are correct, our rocket may depart within a 
few days.” 

Ic Dalfca rose and bowed slightly. “The 
computaticBis are already in the hands of 
Varb il Thistacan who is even now on his 
way to Bab-vir-Gratvon where he and the 
university astronomers will go over my cal- 
culations with the greatest care.” 

Turning to the League members, he con- 
tinued, "There is one aspect of this decision 
to visit Shentol which seems not to have 
occurred to you. If we are successful we may 
be of assistance not only to Aftwan, but to 
the inhabitants of the other world, thus sym- 
bolizing he great truth of our brotherhood 
with all the children of the Sun.” 

The League vociferously endorsed this 
view. A Martian arose and addressed them. 

“It is true,” he said. “Chavroe is al- 
most certainly uninhalfited while there is 
no question erf Shentol’s population. These 
city-builders of Shentol are experiencing 
some catastrophe, and the possibility that we 
might be of assistance to them should be 
sufficient to override all the perils, known 
and unknown, which will confront us in an 
attempt to reach their planet. We are for- 
tunate to number among us one as farsee- 
ing and clear-thinking as the astronomer, 
Vraughn ic Dalfca Sconnefecot.” 

Vo Spuritwan, turning to ic Dalfca, spoke 
to him directly. 

“Since you evince such nobility of miiKl, 
and so much magnanimity for a troubled 
world, it seems to me that you would wish to 
place yourself among the crew of our rocket- 
ship and visit Shentol yourself. You have 
no hesitation in urging others upon this 
flight from which they may never return.” 

“I consider it a great honor to be asso- 
ciated with our crew,” k Dalfca replied, “and 
the traversing of interplanetary space is to 
me the greatest conquest to which life may 
attain. I have already been assigned a place 
on the rocket hy our captain, Vor Fanard 
Justicod.” 

The meeting broke up in a storm of ap- 
plause and the League members, ascended 
to the landing roof, where the ruddy rays 
of a sinking sun bathed the towers of Thuron 
in a thin, red-gold light. The streets were 
in darkness, aSnd as k Dalfca guided his 
air-car in a swift ascent and straightened 
out for the Planetary Observatory, the last 
light of the dying daygleamed like a beacon 
upon the pinnade of Tnnron’s highest tower. 


STABTIJNG STORIES 


120 

T he long, sword-like flaune 

across a stillness older than time it- 
self. Where now a hurtling cylinder sped, 
spurred by this spouting fountain of fire, 
before had been an emptiness unbelieyable, 
where nothing had moved since eternity be- 
gan but flashing meteors, going from no- 
where to nowhere. 

Now, watched by myriad, impersonal stars, 
fts sharp, thrusting prow gleaming in the light 
of the Sun toward which it raced, this shin- 
ing cylinder split Chaos for the first time in 
all time with reason and purpose. 

Although traveling many miles a second, 
the rocket-ship might have been standing 
still. Behind it the blazing stars stood mo- 
tionless, a vast curtain of glittering lights 
that swept away to infinity. Ahead was the 
' unbearably brilliant disc of the Sun, its coro- 
[na streaming out from it, and a little to one 
I side was the palely green-glowing, sun-re- 
flecting planet the rocket-ship pursued. And 
it was upon this planet that the small tele- 
iscope within the ship was turned. 

This telescope, mounted in a small but 
well-equipped observatory just after the con- 
trol room, had been turned over to ic Delfca. 
Due to limited space it had been impossible to 
carry all the apparatus necessary for the 
light-condensing and amplifying tekscc^, so 
it was a small type similar to the terrestrial 
refractor which ic Dalfca now used. 

From the time of the departure of the 
rocket-ship, nearly two weeks before, the as- 
stronomer had hardly left his instrument and, 
as they aj^roached their destination, the 
shortened distance more than made up for the 
inefficierKy of the small telescope. And k 
Dalfca was finding the time spent gazing at 
the planet Shentol well worth-while. 

Events upon that unhappy ^here seemed 
to be reaching a culmination, and Shentol 
was exhibiting phenomena that dwarfed any- 
thing it had produced before. Ic Dalfca was 
aroused to such a pitch that even the comet- 
Bke flight of the rocket-ship seemed a leisure- 
ly crawl. 

Hour after hour the Martian astronomer 
watched the bursting and darting lights on 
the dark face of the planet and stared at the 
huge billows of black smoke that rolled up 
to the limits of the atmosphere. Where be- 
fore there had been a flash, then a pause, 
then a second flash, or a darting streak of 
light that died away, now the sparks were 
almost continuous. Entire sections of the 
planet’s surface seemed in flames. 


Just after a particularly virulent burst of 
bhiish flame had drawn a short, momentary 
scar across the western limb of Shentol, Justi- 
cod, the captain of the rocket-ship, entered 
the observatory. 

"The lights still flash, ic Dalfca ?” he asked 
wearily, dropping into a deep chair. 

“With increasing frequency and magni- 
tude, Justkod,” replied ic Dalfca, turning 
from his telescope. “Our ship is performii^ 
rightly?” 

“Perfectly.” The captain leaned forward. 
“We Eire now traveling at maximum speed. 
Yotff calculations are startlingly exact, and 
we are just past halfway. When as much 
time as we Imve alrearfy been in space has 
again elapsed, we should be entering Shen- 
tol’s atmosphere.” 

“Entering Shentol’s atnrosphere,” repeat- 
ed ic Dalfca, musingly. “And then — ” 

“Who knows?” muttered Justicod, rising. 
“Let me see this mad world.” 

A few moments passed in silence. Sud- 
denly he uttered an ejaculation and his weari- 
ness passed as he looked in tense and frozen 
silence, then whirled upon the startled as- 
tronomer. 

“A rocket-ship !” he cried. “A ship has 
left the surface of Shentol ! I saw it as it 
shone in the sunlight.” 

He turned again to the instrument as k 
Dalfca sprang to his side. 

“It is! I see it again. It is small at this 
distance, but I can see the fire from ks 
rockets. It is sweeping upward swiftly.” 
He paused abruptly with a cry of horror. “A 
light! A pencil of light reaching after it! 
The ship is diving. The light has touched it.” 
He paused again. “Why — why, the rocket- 
ship is falling ! It is out of control.” 

S LOWLY he turned from the telescope 
and looked soberty at the astounded 
astronomer. 

"What happened?” gasped k Dalfca. 
“The ship fell back upon Shentol,” replied 
Justicod. “But why dud it fall? And what 
was that ray of light?” 

The two stared at each other. 

“Do you think we should go on?* Ic 
Dalfca asked uneasily. 

“Why not?” asked Justicod. 

“The danger — ” fc Dalfca said, but the 
captain interrupted him. 

“We discussed all that before,” he said 
brusquely. 

“But this ship that was destroyed,” pro- 


KIARTIAN 

tested the astroiKKner. “This strange ray 
of light — we did not know of that.” 

“I say go on,” said Justicod. 

“But the lives of our crew — ” began ic 
Dalfca. 

“Must be risked,” finished the captain. 
“They could not be risked in a better en- 
deavor. And I think it might be well not 
to speak of this incident.” 

And so the matter rested, and the rocket- 
ship sped along its unmarked path. 

For five days, as the sidereal chronometer 
in the tiny (Aservatory marked them, the 
disturbances upon Shentol increased in in- 
tensity, and ic Dalfca hardly left his tele- 
scope, sometimes even falling asleep before 
it. The lights of city after city had been 
extinguished so that now the dark side of 
the planet lay abandoned to the insane fire 
of the tremendous bursts of lights which be- 
came almost continuous. 

The decreasing distance between the Mar- 
tian rocket-ship and Shentol brought the 
planet so much closer that ic Dalfca could 
see, with each glaring flash, huge, somber 
billows of smoke rolling muddily through the 
darkened cities. The smoke and gases in 
the atmosphere had grown so dense that 
now, upon the sunlit side of Shentol, they 
could be seen drifting above the surface in 
huge clouds. 

For five days the flashes rose to a flaming 
climax of ripping fire, then ceased. 

Ic Dalfca could not believe it. He had 
been staring at a flaming globe swinging in 
space, its night side almost as brilliant as 
the hemisphere that faced the Sun. Now it 
lay in darkness, the shining sunlit crescent 
startlingly bright in contrast to the suddenly 
dark and quiet night side. A few scattered 
bursts of flame appeared ; then these also 
vanished, and. Shentol followed its course 
through space without violence. 

For hours the astronomer peered at the 
nearing globe, surging majestically on its an- 
cient path. Unable to understand the 
abruptly changed aspect of the planet, ic 
Dalfca finally called the crew and acquainted 
them with the somehow ominously altered 
behavior of the capricious planet. 

After a discussion during which several 
cautious members of the crew counseled 
abandonment of the venture, Justicod arose 
and addressed them. 

“There is,” he said, “in my mind, no al- 
ternative. Whatever awaits us upon this 
incomprehensible world, we must go on. To 


GESTtiBE 121 

turn back now, when we are <dmost within 
reach of our objective, to admit defeat and 
return to Aftwan as ignorant of what acti- 
vates Shentol as when we left, would retard 
the development of astronavigation indefi- 
nitely. Our lives, since we pierced the at- 
mosphere of our planet, have not been our 
own, but Aftwan’s, and our fate collectively 
and individually is inconsequential in tire 
face of the importance of the rocket flight 
we are attempting. 

“We are the supreme pioneers and the 
symbols of the star-reaching aspirations of 
Aftwan’s civilization and intelligence. And 
there is the debt of brotherhood we owe 
these other intelligences upon Shentol. To 
deny them our aid now, in the most desperate 
need their world has ever known, is to deny 
our common heritage. I say the only road 
open to us leads to Shentol.” 

Ic Dalfca rose silently and stood beside his 
captain, and presently, the crew were all 
standing. 

“It is agreed?” Vor Fanarb Justicod 
asked. 

As one man the crew raised their left 
“hands” in the Aftwanian gesture of assent. 
Their captain turned to the chief rocket op- 
erator. 

“Nilfon,” he said, “begin exploding the 
brziking rockets. We enter Shentol’s atmos- 
phere in three days. ...” 

S HRILL screaming of friction-heated air 
made a background for the deep, spas- 
modic thunder of the braking rockets. Water 
vapor, boiled into clouds of steam about the 
space-ship and so clouded the ports that the 
Martians could see nothing of this new world 
they had entered. 

On they rushed, the ship strainir^ and 
writhing under the terrific heats and pres- 
sures brought to bear upon it The rocket 
operators were laboring at unbelievable 
speed, firing discharges frcxn various rockets 
at the command of Justicod who, tense with 
anxiety, snapped terse, quick orders from 
the control room port with machinelike rap- 
idity. This port, cooled by a stream of cold 
air across its outer surface, pjermitted some 
slight view of the outside. 

Other members of the crew were hastily 
unscrewing the taps that permitted streams 
of liquid air to rush over the outer surfa<» 
of the ship, which was rising to dangerous 
temperatures. The Martians were astounded 
at the rapidity with which the air pressure 


122 STARTLING STORIES 


was increasing as they dropped toward the 
surface of Shentol. The astronomers had 
warned the stellar navigators of the high 
pressures they would meet upon Shentol, but 
even their maximum estimate had already 
been exceeded and the rocket-ship was still 
miles above the surface. 

For another hour their wild flight through 
the screaming air persisted, and even the in- 
sensitive Martians were aware of the rising 
temperature. Then the giddy rolling and 
writhing of the ship slackened, and presently 
the temperature began falling. 

Gradually the thin shriek of tortured air 
grew fainter and, as the roiling clouds of 
steam dissolved behind them, Justicod drew 
a deep breath. The worst was over and the 
ship now under control. 


CHAPTER IV 
Ravaged World 


A S their speed grew less and less, the 
stem rockets were set firing gently and 
the space-ship cruised leisurely across the 
face of Shentol. Space was at last conquered 
and spanned! 

The entire crew rushed to the ports to peer 
out for a first glimpse of this strange, mad 
new world, and what they beheld was prob- 
ably the greatest wonder this sphere had to 
offer them. They were drifting above an 
ocean, and desert-trained eyes looked on a 
sight no living member of their race had ever 
seen before — water without end. From hori- 
zon to horizon it extended, unbroken by 
land, heaving in ceaseless movement, foam- 
dappled and wind-rippled. 

An unreasoning fear seized even these 
science-trained technicians. They had known 
Shentol’s surface to be largely composed of 
water, but water as seen through a telescope 
from a point millions of miles away and 
viewed from a mile or two above its surface 
is totally different. They had studied maps 
of Shentol’s seas and had often watched them 
from Martian observatories, but never had 
they conceived the sight of an ocean, heaving 
and surging beyond the reach of eyesight. 

For a while the astronauts were engaged 
in marveling at its strangeness. Exclama- 
tions and exchanges of opinions flew back and 
forth. Then the problem of the immediate 


future presented itself, and the crew asked 
the same question that ic Dalfac was asking 
Captain Justicod. 

“But land,” Ic Dalfca was saying. “Where 
is there land?” 

“We are heading toward an enormous con- 
tinent now,” replied Justicod. “I caught a 
glimpse of it for one instant just before we 
struck atmosphere. It is really two conti- 
nents, connected by a narrow strip of land, 
and extending from pole to pole.” 

“It is Valn-zwa-tolcaln!” exclaimed ic 
Dalfca. “The northern of the two continents 
is the seat of one of Shentol’s greatest civi- 
lizations, Or was.” 

“And as we passed over a sea-coast city,” 
said Justicod, “the clouds parted long enough 
for me to see it.” 

“The inhabitants?” asked ic Dalfca. 

Justicod gestured negatively. “I had but 
an instant's vision,” he said. “I saw only the 
vague outlines of a city.” 

For two hours more they sped over the 
tossing wastes of water then, faintly along 
the horizon, a long dim line appeared. Ex- 
citement flared up anew. Soon they would 
come upon a city, and even though they 
would be unable to converse with its inhab- 
itants, they would learn something of the 
strange disaster that had overtaken Shentol. 

An island flashed by beneath them. They 
paid it no heed, for it was a desolate waste, 
torn by huge, gaping craters. But it had once 
harbored life, for strange and inexplicable 
pieces of machinery were scattered about. 
Broken and crumbled walls gave mute testi- 
mony of buildings, long since disappeared. 

The coast was now plainly visible. It, too, 
seemed a land wrecked by some colossal dis- 
aster, its surface scarred and rent, the vege- 
tation blackened and dead. It fronted the sea 
with a wide strip of white beach, upon which 
huge breakers surged, towering into mile- 
long combers which crashed savagely upon 
the white sand. 

The rocket-ship hovered above this beach 
briefly while the Martians watched the 
pounding surf, pondering the cause of this 
ceaseless activity. The consensus of opinion 
was that it was probably produced by dis- 
turbances of the ocean currents. The sight 
of this vast area of moving water was, how- 
ever, one of the most fascinating of all the 
wonders the Martians had witnessed since 
leaving their native planet, and they cruised 
along the shore-line lost in contemplation of 
the sight. At last Justicod called them from 


MABIIAN GESTURE 


dseir staring. 

"If we are to locate a city before night- 
fall,” he said, “we must go on.” 

Beyond the beach stretched what had once 
been a fruitful and populous region, but was 
now a blackened ruin. As they rose slowly 
above it, they perceived miles of roadway, 
but broken and wrecked almost beyond rec- 
ognition. Here and there, by some miracle 
untouched, stood groves of trees, gleaming 
brightly green, and bearing golden globes of 
fruit. Houses in all stages of ruin dotted the 
countryside. Far away towered a long, un- 
real-looking range of mountains, their snow- 
tipped peaks, seeming to float in the purple of 
distance and approaching night. 

T he sight of those roadways sent a thrill 
coursing through the visitors. The final 
and complete evidence of the activity of alien 
intelligences lay spread beneath them, mute 
and enigmatic. There they were — road- 
ways, revealing so much and so little. What 
shapes of life moved, or had moved, along 
those winding ribbons? What engines of 
transportation had used them; from whence 
did they come ; to what destination had they 
moved, and for what purposes ? 

Then they realized what they should have 
noticed immediately — the absence of life. No 
living thing in all that vast expanse moved 
but the wind-stirred trees. 

As though a cold wind had touched him, 
ic Dalfca shivered. Had this been a wilder- 
ness, a desert, or a savage jungle it would 
not have seemed so empty, but the roads and 
vacant buildii^s cried aloud the absence of 
their creators. The silence was that erf one 
newly dead. 

By now the rocket-ship had descended up- 
on a broad highway, seemingly one of the 
main arteries of traffic through this region 
and, by some chance, but little damaged by 
whatever terrible cataclysm had swept tli 
country with destruction. The crew of the 
ship had gathered about the chemist as he 
tested the surface atmosphere. 

“Tremendous pressure,” he said to Justi- 
cod. “The astronomers will be astoulided, 
their calculations are so far at fault. ” 

“Can we bear the pressure?” asked Justi- 
codd. 

“Easily,” replied the chemist, “after a few 
moments. But there are many strange ele- 
ments in this world’s atmosphere — elements 
that should not be natural ingredients in 
Shentol’s atmosphere. I do not understand 


123 

it. Can the astronomers have erred in this 
also?” 

“That is unimportant now,” interrupted 
Justicod. “Are these elements dangerous to 
us?” 

“It is difficult to say. Some of these gases, 
in quantity, would be fatal to all life as we 
know it, and if they are native to Shentol, 
the inhabitants must be strange indeed. Be- 
sides these gases, oxygen is present in enor- 
mous quantities. It may have disturbing 
effects.” 

All were silent. A rocket operator peered 
out as though to see these obscure gases. Far 
down in the ship a motor thumped and 
paused, thumped again. 

Suddenly, Justicod was at the exit port, 
dexterously manipulating the controls. As 
the inner door slid back, he turned to his 
crew, who were watching him frozenly. 

“Wait until I signal before any others 
leave the ship,” he commanded, and drew the 
door shut behind him. 

There was a scramble for places at the 
transparent ports. Justicod appeared outside 
the rocket-^ip, moving with labored slow- 
ness to the center of the roadway. The crew 
stared at him tensely. Abruptly the captain 
sat down upon the smooth surface of the 
roadway, then stretched flat upon his back. 
The crew could see the rigid, chitinous skin 
of his body heaving and straining as he 
breathed. For five minutes or more he lay 
there, occasionally gripping his chest and 
throat as though in pain, and several mem- 
bers of the crew made an attempt to go to 
his assistance. They were sternly ordered 
back by the second in command. 

Finally Justicod sat up, his breathing 
quieter and more normal, then dragged him- 
self heavily to his feet. He essayed a few 
steps back and forth across the roadway and 
eventually seemed almost at ease, though he 
still walked with a slight effort. One of the 
impatient rocket operators thumped upon the 
port and Justicod looked up. Seeing the un- 
spoken request, he nodded and beckoned 
them to join him. There was a rush for the 
exit port. 

As they emerged, the captain instructed 
each to lie flat and breathe as slowly as pos- 
sible. Ic Dalfca stretched himself upon the 
roadway, conscious of the tremendous weight 
of this thick, young atmosphere. It pressed 
relentlessly upon him, squeezing even his 
hard and armorlike skin painfully. The deep- 
est mines of his native planet, where the air 


STARTLING STORIES 


124 

had seemed so close and heavy, were as moun- 
tain heights in comparison to this. He 
seemed to be smothering, his lungs laboring 
painfully under the bite of the thick oxygen. 

Added to this was the crushing grip of 
Shentol’s gravity. Ic Dalfca’s body was al- 
most three times as heavy as upon Aftwan. 
He choked back a groan as his body strained 
against the remorseless drag. With an effort 
of will, he forced himself to stand erect. He 
seemed shod and gloved with lead, hands and 
feet dragging ponderously. 

Soon the majority of the crew were mov- 
ing sluggishly about. In the gathering dusk 
they resembled a company of weary, ex- 
hausted and hopeless men seeking a resting 
place for the night. Their heads and arms 
hung heavily and their knees — or the joints 
corresponding to knees — bent beneath the 
increased weight of their bodies. One sur- 
prising feature of their arrival upon Shentol, 
they afterwards discovered, was a minute but 
measurable shortening of their bodies. 

A n adventurous rocket operator discov- 
ered the first Shentolian. Despite the 
discomfort caused by the gravity and heavy 
air, this explorer had succeeded in progress- 
ing some distance along the roadway, and 
his excited voice summoned the remainder 
of the crew. 

They made a laugliable crew as they strag- 
gled slowly toward him, stumbling and 
drooping wearily, but the rocket operator’s 
attention was fixed wholly on his find. Soon 
the entire group were gathered about this 
object which was sprawled on the short green 
grass which bordered the roadway. 

The creature was smaller than the Mar- 
tians, but patterned on the same general plan 
— ^four limbs, a body, and a head equipped 
with sense organs. The two limbs nearest 
the head, which was placed upon a short 
neck, were more slender and not as long as 
the two with which the body terminated, and 
were equipped with clusters of digfits, five 
upon each limb, which suggested immediately 
to the Martians that the Shentolian walked 
erect upon the longer and heavier pair of 
limbs. ^ 

The body was covered almost completely 
with a brownish cloth, leaving only the head 
and the extremities of the upper limbs ex- 
posed. The rocket operator touched the be- 
uig gjf^erly and with no little awe upon the 
shoulder, but even before he did so, the mem- 
bers of the crew knew that the Shentolian 


was dead. Beside the body lay a long metal 
tube, fitted at one end with a curious wooden 
block. 

“This, then, is a Shentolian,” said Justi- 
cod. “A reasoning, thinking being of an- 
other planet. He is curiously like us — more 
than I would have anticipated — but dead. 
Our sister planet gives us a grim welcome.” 

A chemist who had been kneeling beside 
the body, arose to his feet. 

“This Shentolian,” he exclaimed, a note 
of suppressed fear or excitement vibrating in 
his voice, “was killed by one of the gases we 
noticed in the atmosphere. This gas has been 
present in quantities great enough to suffo- 
cate him. This is proof that the gas is not 
native to Shentol’s atmosphere.” 

Silence descended upon the group and they 
turned to observe their leader’s reaction. 

“And what of that?” demanded Justicod, 
irritably. “We are aware that a disaster of 
some kind has visited this planet. This Shen- 
tolian is undoubtedly a victhn. We must 
expect such.” 

The group stood silently in the deepening 
darkness. A faint wind stirred, moving witli 
small, secretive whispers through the nearby 
trees, and it seemed to ic Dalfca to bear a 
suggestion of some strange, disturbing odor. 
He shivered. 

“Come,” commanded Justicod. “We must 
return to the ship. It is almost night.” 

The rocket operator who had found the 
body had picked up the metal tube and was 
examining it with interest. He discovered a 
small curved lever protruding from the tube. 
A narrow metal guard arched over it. Cur- 
iously, the rocket operator manipulated the 
little lever, and suddenly it gave beneath his 
pressing fingers. It sank slightly — and the 
still gloom was split with a thunderous de- 
tonation and a brilliant flame stabbed out 
from the end of the tube. 

The rocket operator was flung flat upon 
the ground, the tube leaping like a living 
thing from his hands. Hastily the others re- 
turned to him and the Martian pointed 
speechlessly at the bit of pipelike metal. 
Justicod picked it up and tucked it beneath 
an arm. 

“Come,” he ordered, striding firmly off 
toward the ship. 

The last glow had disappeared from the 
western sky and the blue of the zenith was 
now dotted with sharp, bright stars. A planet 
glowed with liquid white in the west. The 
Martians were looking upon their first Shen- 


MARTIAN 

tolian evening, and finding it far more 
fraught with soft and youthful color than 
their own chill, ancient home-world. 

In the morning the explorers pressed on, 
following the roadway, and they began to 
understand the unnatural stillness of this 
region. Here Death had trodden heavily and 
left a grim trail behind. Everywhere they 
saw bodies — sprawJed upon the roadway as 
though flung carelessly by a giant hand, half- 
hidden in the grasses of the open fields, 
crumpled into shapeless huddles among the 
trees, and even hanging from windows of 
such houses as had escaped destruction. 

“A vast host has died here,” murmured 
ic Dalfca, awe-stricken at the numbers of the 
dead. 

“Curious,” mused Justicod, “the lack of 
variation in the cloth these Shentolians wear. 
Some wear gray and some wear brown, and 
rarely is there another color. I wonder if it 
has any significance?” 

As they progressed the terrain gradually 
altered, the fields and woodlands dropping 
away and the buildings increasing in size and 
numbers. And again the appearance of des- 
olation strengthened. Where the open coun- 
try wcis torn and mutilated, the eye glided 
over the scars, already half-healed by the 
green carpet of vegetation, but the broken 
walls and wrecked buildings with their stark, 
jagged splinters of upthrust metal caught the 
glance with a mute and dreadful significance. 

The shattered suburbs drifted beneath 
them — silent, a ghastly chaos — then the veg- 
etation, but for scattered parks and squares, 
disappeared altogether and the Martians 
found themselves in a Shentolian city. 

T he colossal ruin here struck them dumb. 

Not a building stood undamaged. Walls 
were smashed flat or leaned at fantastic an- 
gles, In places, splintered cokinins were all 
that remained to show where buildings had 
once stood. Giant steel girders were twisted, 
and tremendous, hundred-story skyscrapers 
often carried their upper floors undamaged 
while their lower sections were completely 
gutted. Fire, or some agency of terrific heat, 
had been at work, and floods of molten metal 
had swept through the streets, white-hot, 
leaving as they cooled, long stri^ of shining 
smoothness, covering the horrors beneath. 

Bridges, towers, elevated railways, stood 
in fragments, ripped, tcun, or black with fire. 
One high level remained partly undisturbed, 
sweeping airily across th<Mi8and-fix>t gulfs. 


GESTURE 

It connected four giant structures whidi, ex- 
cept for their stubborn, metal framework, 
were entirely demolished. The Martians 
brought their ship closer, slipping in and out 
between the ruined buildings to approach it. 
It was untouched, its long, arching leaping 
lines unmarred. The lights which were 
mounted at intervals upon the white metal 
of its low walls were whole. 

The Martians decided it had been usedi 
for motor traffic between the buildings, for a 
vehicle stood deserted upon the broad, 
smooth expanse of its surface. Its driver,! 
apparently, lay nearby, sprawled face-down. 
About the body the slick surface of the level 
was pitted with many small holes. 

Justicod twisted the ship clear of the build- 
ings and they swept in a wide arc above the 
city. From this height they studied the city 
carefully, using small telescopes, and cruis- 
ing about slowly. 

“There is no need for further exploration! 
here,” said Justicod, at last. “No Shentolian] 
draws breath in this necropolis. We will seek' 
other cities. Somewhere some must live.” 

They proceeded south along the coast,] 
sometimes going a few miles inland. Oncei 
they went as far as the range of mountains] 
and rose above them to see range upon range- 
beyond, snow-capped, silent, and seemingly] 
untouched by whatever catastrophe had over-i 
taken the planet. Nowhere did they find life,, 
with the exception of insects, which, un- 
known upon Aftwan, were a novelty to the; 
explorers. The butterflies, in particular,] 
gaudy and colorful, attracted the Martians, 
and one species, with beautiful red and black-: 
wings, was migrating southward, huge flut-. 
tering flocks of them seeming to follow th®i 
slow course of the space-sliip. 

Days passed and the Martians visited^ 
many small towns and hamlets, and in al]*j 
the same silence prevailed. Some were de- 
serted, but in others the dead were scattered 
like leaves before an autumn wind. Many 
things the Martians learned about the Shen--' 
tolians — among others, the surprsing fads 
that age altered their appearance, for oncfti 
the Martian had matured, his chitinous ex-i 
terior preserved him throughout his life asi 
he was, save for the chances accident. 

But they could find no clue to the cause ofl 
the desolation. There were no signs of vobi 
canic activities. Volcanos might have exH 
plained the presence of large quantities ofi 
deadly gases, of which they found increasing 
evidence, although the gas itself had dissiw 


126 STARTLING STORIES 


ipated, but volcanos could never explain the 
other phases of the destruction so rampant. 


CHAPTER V 
One — Alive 

r 


O NE morning the Martians discerned 
the towers and pinnacles of a host of 
skyscrapers — enormous, soaring buildings 
standing in a crowded mass, hut covering a 
vast area. They sent the space-ship into a 
steep ascent quickly that they might per- 
ceive wholly this, the greatest Shentolian 
city they had yet discovered. 

They looked down upon it, a breath-taking 
sight. They had ascended to a great altitude 
and the serrated mountains, the coast line, 
and the vast expanse of the ocean lay 
stretched out below like a huge relief map. 
A miles-long, land-locked bay broke the coast 
line, and around its shores and climbing the 
low, circling hills was the city. The bay was 
dotted with small islands and joined to the 
ocean by a strait. Other smaller bays and 
waterways fringed the shore line of this 
giant bay. 

The explorers felt that never before had 
they seen a Shentolian city — the others had 
been small towns. Here the buildings top- 
ped and peered over the surrounding hills, 
and levels and traffic ways arched One above 
the other in amazing numbers, although few 
stood now unbroken. Roadways led from 
tile city, and vast numbers of double metal 
rails, whose purpose was obscure to the Mar- 
.tians, wound and criss-crossed about the 
fringes of the metropolis, vanishing finally 
in the obscurity of distance or among the 
hills and mountains. 

Occasionally a huge metal engine stood 
upon these ihterweaving rails while the road- 
ways were littered with the smaller metal 
machines of transportation, which the Mar- 
tians had come to associate with Shentolian 
travel. Over all lay the heavy hand of the 
destroyer. Everything was shattered, burned 
or fused, and the central city section in par- 
ticular was a stupendous mass of wreckage. 
They were too high to see, but knew the 
roads would be clogged with the bodies of 
the dead. 

The explorers dropped their ship slowly 
i.down upon the dty, absorbed by the sight as 


minute by minute more evidences of destruc- 
tion lay revealed. Presently they came to 
rest upon a broad square near the area of 
greatest destruction. From the ports of their 
ship they looked out upon a scene that might 
have been laid in Sheol itself. 

The square was a veritable shambles. 
Shentolians lay everywhere — all ages, in 
every costume and position, singly and 
in wild tangles. Over and under them 
lay the debris of the buildings which 
bordered the square, of which little re- 
mained standing, and the paving of the 
square was ripped and tom, blasted with the 
marks of terrific heat. Here and there stood 
huge machines, inexplicable in purpose to 
the Martians. There were several which 
were predominantly huge reflectors equipped 
with a maze of coils and condensers, and 
other electrical equipment. The physicist of 
the party judged them to’be machines for the 
creation and direction of vibrations. Others 
were long, hollow metal tubes, similar, super- 
ficially, to that which had exploded with such 
fire and noise in the hands of the rocket 
operator, but on an enormous scale. Many 
were mounted upon wheeled vehicles. 

These machines had seemed to attract es- 
pecially the forces of the destruction that had 
swept the city, for about them the searing 
heat had blazed with ghastly effect. Many of 
the metal tubes had fused and melted, drip- 
ping a torrid, horrible dew upon the Shen- 
tolians near them. 

Completely stunned, and overawed at this 
vision of death gone mad, the Martians stood 
silent. Then Justicod aroused them. 

“We will explore this city,” he announced 
calmly. “Here, if anywhere in this unhappy, 
stricken land, we will discover what has 
caused this holocaust — and its survivors, if 
there be any.” 

Preparations were immediately begun for 
the proposed exploration, each member of 
the expedition being equipped with a small 
radio compass sensitized to a special wave- 
length which would be continually broadcast 
from the ship. The compass would, as long 
as this transmitter was operating, give the 
direction in which the ship lay. In the vast, 
ruinous maze of the city, the Martians felt 
the chance of becoming lost was great. 

Each explorer carried a day’s ration of the 
concentrated food which made up the prin- 
ciple part of their diet and a tiny flask of 
water which was more than sufficient for 
their frugal need. Of weapons they had none 


MARTIAN GESTURE 


— violeace was non-existent on their own 
planet, and they made the natural error of 
judging others by themselves. Neither did 
they expect to be imperiled by living things 
in this land where they had found no life 
larger than birds. The possibility of attack 
by wild beasts had been discussed before they 
1^ Aftwan and it had been the general 
opinion that in a civilization as great as that 
which manifestly flourished on Shentol, the 
beasts of prey would have long since disap- 
peared. They were unacquainted with the 
greatest of all killers. 

W EAPONS of course, they did bring, 
but as they believed the destruction 
so rampant about them to be the result of 
unleashed natural forces, titanically destruc- 
tive, they left the weapons in the ship. 

Ic Dalfca made one of the small party 
which headed eastward into the heart of the 
city, into the area of greatest demolishment. 
Other groups made off in various directions, 
while Justicod and several technicians re- 
mained in the space-ship. 

Hampered by the more than double gravity 
and the dense and heavy atmosphere, ic Dalf- 
ca found travel difficult, even on level 
ground. In this grotesque maze of ruins, it 
was trebly so, and the astronomer soon found 
himself falling behind his companions. 

Vraughn ic Dalfca Sconnefecot had seen 
his planet revolve four hundred times about 
the Sun. He was no longer young and could 
not accommodate himself to the changed con- 
ditions as readily as the more youthful mem- 
bers of the interplanetary expedition. How- 
ever, this worried him not at all. He could 
not get lost, and he found much to interest 
and puzzle him as he progressed through the 
ruins. 

The city, he reasoned, must have been one 
of the last to be destroyed. Broken metal was 
still bright and untarnished at the points of 
cleavage, and decomposition had as yet made, 
little headway. One curious condition which 
puzzled him was that the inhabitants had 
made little or no attempt to flee the disaster, 
of whose approach they must have been 
aware. In other cities and towns there had 
been a marked effort at evacuation, the road- 
ways being clogged with bodies, and the 
streets empty except for the gray and brown- 
clad Shentolians whom ic Dalfca had taken 
to be scientists willing to risk their lives at 
the storm center on the chance of discover- 
ing some salvation for their planet. 


127 

Here, however, the inhabitants had re- 
mained in the city — a desperate gesture of 
hopelessness, thought the Mailian astron- 
omer. Many were locked in each others arms, 
and some seemed to have been struggling. 
All, or nearly all, were possessed of those 
metal tubes, one of which had behaved .so 
disturbingly in tlie hands of the rocket op- 
erator. 

Ic Dalfca climbed through a broken wall 
and came out upon a broad thoroughfare, 
free of wrecloge in the immediate vicinity. 
He strode laboriously down the street, keep- 
ing to the center to avoid the chance of falling 
masonry. A gaping crater, half-filled with a 
ghastly rubble, forced him to the side of the 
street, and the Martian suddenly caught sight 
of something that intrigued him. It was an 
effigy of a Shentolian, and lay beside the 
body of one of the smallest Shentolians he 
had seen. 

The Martian approached and studied the 
thing carefully. It was small and brightly 
fainted, having red lips and cheeks, and yel- 
low hair. Once crisp, snowy cloth had 
wrapped its body, but it was now soiled and 
sadly draggled. The little image’s limbs and 
head were made, as ic Dalfca discovered as 
he cautiously touched it, of a liard, smooth 
material, while its body appeared to be 
stuflfed with soft cloth. 

The Martian wondered amazedly if the 
Shentolians had been given to fetichism and 
picked the image up. And ic Dalfca received 
the surprise of his life, for, as he righted the 
little figure, bringing its head upward, its 
eyes popped open and it said, distinctly and 
mechanically, “Ma-Ma! Ma-Ma!” 

The old and weary visitor from another 
world stared at the thing in his hand, tlien 
carefully replaced it at the side of the still 
little figure at his feet. Far off, a wall col- 
lapsed, booming hollowly. 

For anotlier hour ic Dalfca made his way 
through the colossal wreckage. He climbed 
from level to level and invaded apartments 
whose purpose was totally incomprehensible 
to him. Strange machines mocked his igno- 
rance on every hand and once he nearly 
killed himself by stepping into a small, empty 
compartment which he took to be a closet. 
He had no sooner entered than the door slid 
swiftly shut behind him and the tiny room 
shot skyward in a smooth, accelerating rush. 

Panic seized the surprised Martian and he 
instinctively tugged at a control in one wall 
of the compartment. The room stopped ris- 


STAB^INO STORIES 


ing as smocrthly as it had begun and the door 
SlM open. Ic Dalfca lost no time in getting 
out. His surprise was great when he dis- 
covered, upon looking from a window, that 
in the few seconds in which he had been in 
the mysterious room, he had soared high 
above the ground level. 

As the Martian astronomer made his way 
slowly down through the building, with diffi- 
culty in the more demolished sections, he 
looked into apartments. Even in the higher 
floors he found bodies, and ic Dalfca con- 
cluded that this city had succumbed to some 
noxious and deadly gas, but from whence the 
gas had come, he could not guess. Few of 
the bodies here were damaged, although in 
several places some huge projectile seemed 
to have crashed through the walls, destroying 
building and Shentolian alike. 

Many of the floors were apparently living 
quarters, particularly the higher ones ; others 
defied ic Dalfca to identify them. He climbed 
steadily downward, in places through the 
bare framework. 

O UTSIDE, the city lay still and silent in 
the afternoon sunlight. Nothing moved 
in all that vast expanse of tumbled stone and 
seared and twisted metal. Ic Dalfca won- 
dered where his companions might be. Soon, 
he knew, he must be turning back ; only a 
few more hours of daylight remained. 

He had just stepped through a shattered 
doorway when he received evidence of his 
companions’ nearness. A flurry of excited 
shouting came from somewhere nearby. 
Alarmed, ic Dalfca hurried toward the sound. 
As he rounded the comer, he beheld a tab- 
leau which brought him to a halt, astounded. 
Before him, spread out in a line, and evi- 
dently wildly excited, stood his companions, 
behaving in a manner that led ic Dalfca to 
suspect they had taken leave of their senses. 
They were advancing slowly and gesturing, 
their attention centered on something beyond 
them. 

The astronomer peered between two of 
his shipmates — and stood rooted by amaze- 
ment what he saw. A Shentolian — alive — 
was retreating as the Martians approached 
him. He was apparently frightened, but even 
more he was enraged. He retreated with re- 
luctance, even with difficulty. Ic Dalfca 
gazed with consuming curiosity at this first 
living Shentolian he had seen. 

The creature was astonishingly dirty. The 
brown cloth in which he was enwrapped was 


tom and mtKJdy and smeared with dark 
brown stains. His f£«:e and hands were aU 
most hidden under their accumulated dirt, 
and around his mouth and jaws stood a rough 
stubble of short hair. From the streaked and 
haggard mask of his face blazed a pair ot 
burning, and to ic Dalfca’s mind, not a little 
mad, eyes. 

As the Martian watched, the Shentolian 
moved again and ic Dalfca saw that one leg 
dragged uselessly. He hitched himself back- 
ward a few feet and halted again, apparently 
near the point of exhaustion. He understood 
no word of what the excited Martians were 
calling to him, and misinterpreted their ac- 
tions completely. In his hands he held one 
of the long metal tubes which seemed part 
of the equipment of all Shentolians. 

Again the Martians advanced upon him, 
one of them calling : 

“We come to help you, Shentolian. Let 
us take you back to our ship and we will 
cure your ills.” 

The Shentolian raised the tube and pointed 
it at the speaker. Again he slowly dragged 
himself backward. The Martian halted and 
the injured creature took advantage of the 
respite to lower his tube and, using it as a 
crutch, hobble away from them until he was 
backed against a wall and could retreat no 
further. His audience grouped themselves 
in a half-circle about him and the situation 
seemed deadlocked. The Shentolian was 
gasping painfully and seemed far gone, but 
he held himself doggedly erect, prc^ped 
against the wall, and his blazing, feverish 
eyes never ceased their alert scrutiny of the 
Martians. 

A Martian moved suddenly, and instantly 
the black, circular hole in the muzzle of the 
tube was directed upon him. Uneasiness 
swept over the Martians, although the sig- 
nificance of the tube escaped them. 

“It is a weapon,” murmured one, and the 
Shentolian’s dark, hot eyes were instantly up- 
on him. He became silent. 

“Not a ray generator,” said an assistant 
navigator. 

“It might be an anaesthetizer,” suggested 
another. 

“An anaesthetizer does not spurt fire, nor 
make a loud sound,” protested the navigator, 
remembering the rocket curator’s experi- 
ence with the tube. 

“Cannot we make him understand we 
mean no harm?” asked ic Dalfca, m^ng 
his presence known. 


MABTIAN GESTURE 


“We have tried,” he was answered. “He 
cannot understand our speech, and he pays 
no attention to our gestures other than wave 
us away.” 

“He is dying, I think,” announced one of 
the Martians. 

“I don’t believe his weapon can harm us 
much,” said the assistant navigator. “There 
is probably as little need for weapons here on 
Shentol as there is on Aftwan. All the more 
dangerous animals must already have been 
exterminated. The tube is probably a feeble 
toy which we can easily overcome.” 

The Shentolian’s breathing was becoming 
easier. 

“It will soon be dark,” said ic Dalfca, 
pointing to the lengthening shadows. “We 
must either persuade this being to come with 
us or desert him. To return to the ship in 
darkness would be a perilous undertaking 
among these ruins.” 

The Martians nodded and began a slow 
approach toward the Shentolian who tight- 
ened his grip upon the tube and broke into 
feverish speech. 

“No — no!” he exclaimed. “It is enough! 
You have done enough !” 

The Martians halted, amazed at this out- 
burst, of which they did not understand a 
word. The Shentolian continued, evidently 
the prey of a wild and fearful despair. 

“Go away,” he cried, waving the tube at 
them. “Go away, and let there be peace. 
Fools ! There is nothing left. What does it 
matter that I am alive, when so many are 
dead ? What if one is left alive ? There are 
enough dead! Look at them!” He swept a 
long arm about him. “Yours, too,” he con- 
tinued. “Yours are dead, too. In millions. 
Yon are mad to continue. There is no longer 
any Eastern Entente, nor a Western Alli- 
ance. You are mad to persist. What can it 
matter if one lives ? The world is gone, de- 
stroyed, wiped out. Man is extinct and we 
are ghosts ! Go away !” 

T he effect on the Martians of this wild 
speech, delivered in a voice of tragedy 
and with uncontrolled gestures, was stun- 
ning. They stopped and stood staring. The 
Shentolian, in the grip of his emotion and 
forgetful of his injuries, stood away from the 
wall, staggering weakly. 

“I tell you, go I” he shouted. “The world 
is dead. And we are dead, too, or soon will 
be. You cannot hide yourselves with those 
faceless masks! Death will find you.’' 


129 

The Martians did not move. Suddenly the 
Shentolian became quiet He looked about 
the circle. 

“You will not go?” he asked, almost 
pleasantly. “You wish to continue to the 
end? Very well. Perhaps it is better so. 
Sirs, the last engagement in the final war 
begins.” 

And before the Martians had recovered 
from their initial surprise, the Shentolian had 
raised his metal tube and the silence of the 
city was split and sundered by the rattling 
thunder of rifle fire. 

The young assistant navigator started and 
toppled slowly forward, a look of hurt sur- 
prise in his eyes. . . . 

Justicod trampled up and down beside the 
bed on which the Shentolian lay. Beyond it 
three other beds held quiet occupants. 

“ — and then he put this weapon to his 
shoulder and it belched fire and noise as did 
the other which the rocket operator found, 
and our three companions fell to the ground,” 
ic Dalfca was explaining. “Then the Shen- 
tolian staggered and uttered more of his 
strange speech— and collapsed himself. We 
brought them all back, although it was diffi- 
cult in the darkness.” 

“It is marvelous that the Shentolian was 
able to stand at all,” said the chief physician. 
“He is at the point of death,” 

Justicord walked to a port and gazed out 
into the silent darkness. The city was a 
deeper black against the soft night sky — a 
lumped, jagged, grotesque blackness faintly 
lit by the thin starlight. 

“This city must be searched thoroughly,” 
he said. “There may be others alive. Equip 
each searcher with an anaesthetizer and have 
any living Shentolians brought to the ship.” 

The Shentolian moved restlessly in the 
straps which bound him, muttering in his de- 
lirium. His voice steadied and grew clearer. 

“No more,” he said, “not ever any more 
forever. And if no one is in the forest when 
the Ixee falls, is there a sound ?” He laughed 
cr^ily, then suddenly changed, and became 
quiet. “Yes, sir,” he said tensely. “First 
Battalion, sir. On the double.” For a mo- 
ment he was silent, then broke into harsh 
sobs. “But it was wiped out!” he wailed. 
“Wiped out to a man.” 

Justicod approached and stood looking 
down upon the Shentolian. “If only we couW 
understand him,” he murmured. “He knows 
what manner of doom has come to his planet. 
He knows, but cannot tell us. I am begin- 


STARTUNG STORIES 


130 

ning to have a suspicion of the nature of this 
disaster, but we must hear it from a Shen- 
tolian.” 

“You think you know what force has 
wrecked this planet?” asked ic Dalfca. “What 
was it? A rain of meteoric particles? That 
would account for the destruction by heat 
and collision. You think Shentol encountered 
a swarm of meteors?” 

“No,” Justicord replied. “No. My sus- 
picion is too terrible, too wild and grotesque 
to present as an explanation. We must find 
a living Shentolian, this one or another if 
this one dies, and learn his speech, or teach 
him ours, then hear from him what has oc- 
curred. We will resume the exploration of 
this city in the morning.” 

For two weeks the Martians combed the 
ruined city, fruitlessly. Enormous sound am- 
plifiers were erected, facing in every direc- 
tion, and many and various noises were 
traced down and investigated, -only to prove 
to have been produced by natural causes or 
by some of the small animals which were in- 
vading the city in larger and larger numbers. 
Mile by mile the city was gone over, and 
nightly an alert watch was kept for possible 
lights. 

The result was nothing, and at the end of 
two weeks the Martians were convinced that 
no other living Shentolian inhabited the 
city. 

Conditions there had also become impos- 
sible even for the insensitive Martians. The 
air was horribly foul, and Justicod feared 
some strange plague of this unknown world 
might attack his crew. The city was now 
flooded with a horde of animal scavengers — 
fast breeding little animals some few of which 
had escaped the sweeping death that had 
gripped Shentol. These survivors, presented 
with a vast supply of food, had burst into a 
seemingly mathematical progression of re- 
production and, free of their natural enemies, 
the larger carnivorous animals, which had 
failed to pass through the ordeal as success- 
fully, bade fair to swiftly purify the city. 

One morning, therefore, the space-ship 
soared up between the silent towers and into 
the bright, sweet light of the rising Sun, to 
begin the long, wandering search that was to 
consume many months and take her into 
every continent and across all of Shentol’s 
oceans. South they headed first, toward the 
tropics, where the disturbances, as seen from 
Aftwan, had not been as great. Autumn 
came, but' the Martians were by then well 


below the twentieth parallel and perceived ft 
only as a period of itense rains. 


CHAPTER VI 
To Rise Again! 


M onths passed and the astronauts 
sought in vain for any sign of rea- 
soning from the terrific shock of the catas- 
trophe, although a great number of Shen- 
tol’s life-forms had disappeared completely. 
Birds, in particular, were rare. The vege- 
table kingdom, however, had, in the time of 
Shentol’s stress, clung doggedly to life and 
now was experiencing a resurgence of phe- 
nomenal proportions. In this southern con- 
tinent they were now exploring, the Martians 
found many huge cities buried beneath a 
waving green canopy. 

A few brief months and the seemingly eter- 
nal handiwork of the Shentolians was lost 
and unknown beneath the waving, nodding 
green fronds. Creepers climbed, sent subtle, 
thin fingers into cracks, forced their way 
steadily deeper to let in erosion, and roots 
quietly groped through the subterranean 
darkness, swelling, bursting paving and un- 
dermining foundations, and followed by the 
drip and trickle of water. The final and su- 
preme civilization of Shentol was swiftly 
joining the older, cruder civilizations the 
jungle had swallowed centuries ago. 

The Shentolian they had found in a dying 
condition was slowly recovering under the 
ministrations of the Martians. The Martians 
whom he had wounded had been quickly 
healed, and during their convalescence had 
undertaken the care of their starved, ex- 
hausted, fevered guest. Having sunk until 
the flickering life-spark threatened to dis- 
appear, the Shentolian, sustained by the mar- 
velous medical science of the Martians, had 
at last given evidence of returning strength. 

Inch by inch the Martians had fought to 
retain each slight improvement, and finally 
the Shentolian, thin and pale, but with the 
light of reason in his eyes, had been pro- 
nounced definitely past all danger. For a 
month he lay in his cot, his starved body 
slowly filling out, his wrecked system gradu- 
ally healing. He watched, with wide, puz- 
zled eyes, the comings and goings of his 
nurses. Once or twice he essayed to q>eak to 


MARTIAN 

them, but was made to understand he must 
be quiet. The Martians were not yet ready 
to take up the task of establishing communi- 
cation. 

Later, when he was permitted to leave his 
bed and took his first faltering steps about 
the space-ship, the exchange of vocabularies 
was begun, and the Shentolian learned the 
sounds by which his hosts identified their 
various utensils. 

The Martians, too, were learning their 
guest's language, and as he gradually ex- 
tended his activities, the exchange became 
more and more rapid. Most of their conver- 
sations were carried on in the speech of the 
Shentolian, as it was almost impossible for 
him to reproduce the sounds they made, while 
the Martians had much less difficulty with 
his. 

The question that had first occupied the 
Shentolian to the exclusion of all else had 
been that of their identity and from whence 
they had come. When their origin had fi- 
nally been made clear to him, he had gone 
off to a window-seat and, for a long after- 
noon, sat staring silently down at the wav- 
ing green treetops gliding by beneath him. 

Later they conveyed to him that they were 
seeking others of his kind, and he shook his 
head hopelessly. When they pressed him, 
and supplied him with maps they had gath- 
ered, he directed them from point to point 
where he thought some few might still be 
living. Month by month, patiently, they 
wandered on, visiting city after city. Some 
were totally destroyed or drowned in green 
jungle. All were dead and silent, with the 
silence of complete cessation. 

They came to the narrow southern tip of 
the continent, a bleak, grim, storm-harried 
cape, rock-bound, surf-beaten, thrusting un- 
yielding ridges out into the tumbling, icy 
waters of the gray polar seas, and bore on 
into the frozen, white wilderness of the South 
Pole. Here small, ridiculous, wingless birds 
watched their passage with pert interest. 
Once they observed a wrecked machine and 
a few lost, lonely, and deserted buildings. 

Turning east they worked their way up 
through a vast, luxuriant continent where 
they saw huge herds of animals, either re- 
plenished in numbers by a relatively few sur- 
vivors, or untouched by the catastrophe. And 
here they met their first impasse. In places, 
particularly near the equator, this continent 
was one vast, teeming jungle, and occasion- 
ally the Martians on watch reported, as they 


GESTURE 131 

glided slowly above the leafy curtain, sodden 
glimpses of furtive movements on the ground 
below. Whether these were signs of reason- 
ing beings or not they could not determine. 
Upon landing, nothing was found. 

The Shentolian explained that this conti- 
nent had once been the home of a vast race, 
comprising millions of individuals, but that 
if any remained alive, they would be only 
the most uncivilized of savages — creatures 
so remote from his world as to be totally un- 
aware of it, and, in the deepest wilderness, 
possibly untouched. This concept of civiliza- 
tion and savagery, extant at the same time 
upon the planet, struck the Martians, whose 
single race had advanced in unison, as mon- 
strous. 

J USTICOD began the questioning of the 
Shentolian, and bit by bit, in the pres- 
ence of his tense, absorbed audience, he built 
up a picture of his world as it had been, and 
its history. Meanwhile they pressed on, 
crossing an inland sea and entering a region 
where the destruction passed belief. The 
very face of the earth seemed altered. This 
place they hurried over. 

A year passed and another enormous con- 
tinent was explored from east to west, north 
to south. Towering mountain ranges, vast 
northern swamps, deserts, plains, rolling 
hills, all passed beneath the tireless keel — a 
medley of civilizations, amazing the Martians 
with their range and variety. There were 
sunny agricultural areas, now left to drift 
back to the wild; great stately cities, lonely 
villages high on craggy mountain flanks, 
harbors, roadways and, in the eastern conti- 
nent, strange, colorful cities with houses, 
many-roofed, weirdly built, weirdly de- 
stroyed. Once they came upon an ancient 
wall, huge and broad, and followed it for 
many empty miles, while the Shentolian told 
of its history. 

Turning westward again, the Shentolian 
told them of an island, or small continent, 
just off the coast, which had been the center 
of the vast empire. 

They entered it from the north, creeping 
slowly southward to its heart, and beheld 
that which transcended anything they had 
ever seen before. Here civilization had 
flowered, surpassing that of Mars as Mars 
surpassed that of the huge jungle-clad con- 
tinent. Industry had made its home in this 
little continent, and for mile after mile the 
space-ship cruised over mine and factory, 


STARTLING STORIES 


132 

interluded with once pleasant parks and 
woodlands. But Destruction had trod heavily 
everywhere. 

In the capital city they landed, in a wilder- 
ness of crumbled stone, smashed and flat- 
tened buildings, and rusted metal. Their 
short excursion through its ruins brought 
them before what had once been a great 
building. A long, wide flight of stone steps 
remained, and in the midst of this flight, 
upon a heavy stone block, a sculptured animal 
reposed. 

Its massive head upflung, it gazed in som- 
ber dignity at the wilderness of ruins be- 
fore it. A savor of old majesty, of ancient 
splendor, clung to this stone beast, as it 
stared with high-held head at the end of its 
history, and the Martians stood to look at 
it. 

“What is it?” asked ic Dalfca of the 
Shentolian. 

He, too, gazed at the figure, his hands 
nervously twisting together. 

“Tlie British Lion,” he replied, at last. 

In spite of its destruction, London had 
given much to the Martians in the way of 
books (which the Shentolian, to continue 
using the Martian term for the terrestrial, 
was teaching them to read) and machinery. 
All available space in their ship was being 
utilized for the storage of such cargo, and 
they finally concluded they could carry no 
more. Mars itself was again approaching 
opposition with Earth, nearly two years 
having elapsed since tliey had first streaked 
down through Earth’s atmosphere, and the 
Martians determined to begin their return 
journey, meeting their planet in space as it 
swept around its orbit toward them. 

They had now a vague picture of the his- 
tory and accomplishments of Earth’s people 
as told to them by their guest, although much 
of it was incomprehensible to minds so alien. 
But the cause of the final scourge, of so 
much importance and curiosity to the Mar- 
tians, had been avoided in their discussions. 
Justicod had given orders that the Shento- 
lian was not to be questioned about it until 
he, Justicod, was ready to question him, and 
the Shentolian himself not only made no 
reference to it in their talks, but seemed 
actually to avoid the subject. 

Now, however, Justicod felt it time to have 
his suspicions verified or proved wrong. 
Therefore, on the eve of their departure for 
Mars, he assembled the crew in the control 
cabin and addressed the Shentdian, who 


had watched in astonishment as the entire 
crew filed into the narrow room. 

Briefly Juticod outlined the events that had 
fostered this visit to Shentol, told of the 
Interplanetary League and of the reasons 
for which Shentol had beerl selected as the 
planet to be visited. The Shentolian lis- 
tened in growing astonishment as the flash- 
ing lights which the Martian astronomers 
had seen on Shentol were described. 

“And so,” concluded Justicod, “this dis- 
turbance upon your planet was the primary 
factor in the society’s selecting it as the 
destination of our ship. We felt it to be all- 
important for us to discover the nature of 
your catastrophe in order to guard against 
a possible like visitation upon Mars. Or, if 
on too grand a scale to control, we of Aftwan 
wished to be in a position to foresee any ap- 
proaching destruction of our planet in a 
similar manner. We might then have suffi- 
cient time to escape it. So now we ask you to 
explain. Insofar as you are able, the forces 
that have laid waste your world, and de- 
stroyed the civilization that flowered here.” 

NCE or twice during this oration the 
Shentolian had made as if to speak as 
his astonishment threatened to exceed his 
control, but then he grew calmer, and when 
Justicod finished, stared Silently at them, 
turning to look at each in turn. They 
watched him eagerly. 

“And do you of Aftwan,” he finally asked, 
“not yet understand the nature of Shentol’s 
catsastrophe ?” 

For a moment, none answered. Then 
Justicod spoke. 

“I think I do,” he said slowly. 

The two stared silently at each other, alien, 
utterly different, yet reading in each other’s 
bearing confirmation of their thoughts. 

“Planetary suicide,” concluded Justicod, 
his words falling deliberately in the tense 
silence. “You have destroyed yourselves.” 

For a moment, the Earthling faced the 
tones of accusation which the Martian could 
not keep from his voice, then he slowly 
bowed his head, turning the palms of his 
hands outward in a helpless gesture. 

“It is true,” he said. “We have destroyed 
ourselves. Set utterly at nothii^ the thoti- 
sands of years of civilization’s slow climb 
from savagery, the million years of striving 
upward from the beast. We have finally 
repudiated all of Man’s nobility and intel- 
ligence, and in a last mad welter of maniacal 



MARTIAN GESTURE 


hatred, flung ourselves at each other’s throats 
like the beasts we ultimately are. On the 
eve of a civilization that might have reached 
out to the stars themselves, we have flung 
life and the glory the future promised away 
from us as though it were erf no account. 
The ape has finally triumphed.” 

“What — interrupted ic Dalfca. 

“War,” continued the Shentolian, musing- 
ly. “Always has Earth known war. You of 
Mars have no word for it in your vocabulary. 
You cannot understand. You are all of one 
race; you have no nations nor the cursed, 
murder-breeding idea of nationalism — to kill 
men, your own species, with whom you have 
no quarrel, whom you don’t even know. Al- 
ways it has been so on Earth. First man 
against man, then tribe against tribe, and 
last nation against nation. The history of 
Earth is a history of warfare. Kings and 
conquerors, greedy for jx>wer, or covetous 
of material wealth, have drenched the pages 
of all Eiarthly histories with blood. 

“Nations have fought for dominion over 
other nations, have stamped out whole races 
and invented all manner of horrible engines 
for the killing of citizens of other nations. 
They said, when civilization at last entered 
its highest phase, when kings and emporers 
were gone, that warfare had ended with one 
final World War that ended in our year 
One - thousand -nine- hundred - and - eighteen. 
They said it was a war to end war, but they 
forgot the financial kings and emperors. Ware 
have been profitable to them, and they have 
always fostered them. Some made vast for- 
tunes by manufacturing the engines of war, 
and these men in particular have done their 
best to make wars, have nurtured race 
hatreds and national jealousies. 

“Their callous, brutal greed has known no 
boundaries, their propaganda encircled the 
globe, and finally they incited two great 
races, the white who dwelt mostly in the 
Western hemisphere, inhabiting the con- 
tinents of Europe and the Americans, and 
the yellow, who came from the East, from 
the vast continent of Asia, to fall upon each 
other in a war transcending anything we had 
known before, and involving every nation on 
Earth. 

“They attacked each other with every 
weapon they could command — with explo- 
sives, with gas, and with disease. No form 
of death was too horrible or inhuman to be 
utilized, and all of the tremendous forces erf 
our civilization were thus, perverted to its 


133 

destruction. Va^ fortunes were piled up by 
the manufacturers of these weapons who sold 
their ghastly wares to both sides, sneering 
at the mania of patriotism which they them- 
selves had created. Still they were too stupid 
and short-sighted to foresee that the mon- 
ster they had made, that was devouring the 
world like a flame, would surely and in- 
evitably engulf its authors as well. 

“Merrily the holocaust tore along its mad 
path of destruction. The toll of Death be- 
came fantastic. Cities were wiped out in a 
night.” 

“We saw them,” murmured ic Dalfca, 
awe-stricken, unconscious that he spoke. 

“All business stopped,” continued the 
Shentolian, deaf to the interruption. “Trade 
and transportation collapsed and world-wide 
famine walked with the other deaths. Then 
we discovered we had poisoned the air. The 
atmosphere of our planet, steeped in the gases 
we had loosed upon each other, was death to 
us. 

“The war barons became frightened. Their 
own safety was threatened. They saw so- 
ciety sinking to extinction around them. And 
they tried to stc^ it. They refused to manu- 
facture any more explosives. They destroyed 
what they had and killed the germs in the bac- 
teria-shells. Wildly, in a panic of terror, they 
tried to stop it. But it was too late! 

“The warring races laughed at their ef- 
forts. They had huge stores of weapons 
they could still draw on, and they were mad 
with the lust of murder, lost to reason or 
fear. The war went on to the end — till in 
a last Titanic burst of murder both races 
exterminated each other and Mankind sank 
back through the centuries to — to oblivion. 

“You know the rest. You’ve seen the 
world ; you’ve walked through our dead and 
desolate cities. This is the end of all human 
history. And I do not think the cosmos,” 
concluded the Shentolian, speaking almost 
in a whisper, forgetful of his audience, “will 
see our like again.” 

A long silence ensued. The Martians 
stood quietly, lost in this tremendous tragic 
drama revealed to them. Then ic Dalfca 
spoke, softly, to himself. 

“For five hundred years we watched 
them,” he said. “The lights of cities we shall 
never see again. ...” 

EPILOGUE 

T he Shentolian stood at a window and 
looked back at the Earth he was leaving. 


STARTLING STORIES 


134 

A round tall, gleaming in the sunlight, ex- 
cept for the narrow scimitar of darkness that 
marked the edge of night, it floated quietly 
and seemingly without motion in empty 
space. 

He, too, in the speeding space-ship, seemed 
motionless, and time had no meaning here in 
the still profundities of the eternal void. 
From here, Earth appeared the same as it 
had always been and gave no sign of the 
tragedy for which it had so recently been the 
stage. Only to the astronomer, ic Dalfca, did 
the unbroken darkness of Earth’s night-side 
have a sad significance. 

As the Shentolian stood gazing at Earth, 
he was presently joined by Justicod, who 
stood beside him, towering above the smaller 
Shentolian. Hesitantly, Justicod placed a 
hard paw on the other’s shoulder. The 
Shentolian smiled his appreciation of the 
Martian’s sympathy. 

“And we came to help you,’’ Justicod said 
sadly, “if it were in our power.’’ 

“You came too late,’’ the Earthling re- 
plied. “I am the last man — ^the last man.’’ 

“Perhaps not,’’ argued Justicod. “We 
have not explored all of your world. We have 
really seen but a little. There may be 
others living somewhere, somehow. Others 
may have escaped as you escaped. When we 
return again, we will stay longer. We will 
search everywhere, and you shall direct us 
to the remote islands and deserts where some 
may have lived on.’’ 

You will return again? asked the man, 
eagerly. You will go back to Earth and 
take me with you? 

Of course, the Martian answered. And 
we will search till we find those who most 
certainly are still living, somewhere. You 


yourself must know of places we have not 
visited — places where men lived, whidi were 
remote and unlikely to have been much af- 
fected. 

“Yes.” The Shentolian was once more 
alert, his face bright with hope. “Yes. The 
islands of the South Pacific. Thousands and 
thousands of islands, many of them inhabited. 
Set in the ocean, thousands of miles from 
land, the atmosphere could not have been 
badly affected by poison gas, and only a few 
of the larger islands were attacked by the 
warring nations. Most were too small and 
isolated to be bothered about. Men must be 
still living on those islands, at least. I am 
sure of it!” 

The change in the Shentolian was pro- 
found. He stood erect and stared once more 
back at the bright. Sun-reflecting, green globe 
of Earth, not sadly this time, but wdth hope 
and a dawning vision in his eyes. Justicod 
put an ann about the man’s shoulders. 

“I, too, am sure of it, said the Martian, 
“and we will go back again, and from that 
remnant together we will build a new, proud 
race of man that will again come into his 
ancient heritage, the green Earth. We of 
Mars will not let this new race forget the 
power, and intelligence; and glory that has 
been Man's. We will help our younger 
brothers until once again we see, through 
our telescopes, the night side of Earth blaz- 
ing with tlie lights of many cities. 

The Shentolian gripped the other’s hand 
hard. 

“You are good, he said.” 

Together the two stood and watched the 
green sphere as it slowly receded from them, 
slowly grew brighter as the scimitar of dark- 
ness slipped, prophetically, from its face. 



COMING IN THE NEXT ISSUE 

THE LOOT OF TIME 

A Hall of Fame Nayelet 

By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK 




The nSSION MAN 

Perhaps they still knew him as Dr. John Norman — or 
possibly he was just Project X in somebody's filel 

By B. STOCKHEKEB 


W RITHING in an eerie little 
dance, the dust devil spun across 
the concrete roof of the block- 
house. It bounced to the ground and came 
scurrying over the sand toward them, shat- 
tering its miniature fury finally on the wire 
feace which enclosed the building. 

135 


The fence had been high and bright and 
new the last time Roger Casey had seen it. 
Now it was choked with the debris of the 
desert, and the drifting sand had begun a 
slow climb to the barbed-wire top. A huge 
sign on the padlocked gate carried the red- 
lettered warning: “Danger! Radioactive!” 



136 STARTLING i^OBIES 


The sign was, Casey thought grimly, an 
epic of understatement. Four years ago he 
had seen the thing they had sealed in the 
blockhouse, and the short hairs on his neck 
still crawled when he thought about it. In 
four years you could forget a lot, or you 
could remei^er a lot, but the choice was not 
always yours. 

He stirred uneasily, and his uneasiness 
seemed to reach out to the girl who stood 
beside him on the sand hummock. She 
pressed closer against him, a slender figure 
in brown slacks and borrowed field jacket. 
She had bound a silk scarf around her thick 
auburn hair, but the insistent, searching 
fingers of the wind had pulled loose stray 
wisps, whipping them into swirling red 
wraiths which seemed to mimic the wild 
dance of the dust devil. 

Her eyes, fixed on the squat building, 
shaded into misty violet, and her fingers bit 
into Casey’s arm. 

“Roger!” she gasped. “How could they? 
How could they do it?” 

“Try not to think about it, honey,” Casey 
said. “It isn’t something you can raticxialize.” 

“I know, Roger,” the girl persisted. “But 
it’s so heartless.” 

Behind them footsteps crunched into the 
sand, setting up harsh islands of sound in the 
ceaseless hiss of the wind. An army officer, 
the flaming bomb of the ordnance on his 
collar, picked his way carefully up the hum- 
mock, He stopped in front of the girl, his 
shoulders bracing instinctively. She was a 
darling. Major Carlson thought. A man 
grew too old too fast. The difference between 
oak leaves and a lieutenant’s bars just 
wasn’t worth the gray hair. 

“We’re ready. Dr. Casey,” he sighed. 

C ASEY hesitated, reluctant, ikw that the 
moment had come, to proceed. The 
whole thing was fantastic. It was hopeless; 
nothing could possibly come of it. 

“All right. Major,” he said. “We’ll be 
right with you.” He turned, helping the girl 
down the slope of the sand and into the 
cement dugout at the base of the hummock. 

They had set a battered bench down there 
in the dugout The bench now held a com- 
pact little amplifying unit. A squawk box 
stood beside the unit Casey fdt the muscles 
HI his body stiffen as he crossed over to the 
bench. His arm was heavy and uncot^ra- 
tive when he reached up to ffip the switeh 
marked send. 


The last jump was too great. They know 
that now. That uneasy and awful realization 
is something that scientists live and sleep 
and — sometimes — die with. Yet they are 
even now poised for further leaps beyond the 
barriers into the quiescent horrors that still 
wait for man in the Unknown. 

The climax of that jump — Nagasaki and 
Hiroshima — is known to all the civilized 
world ; the cost of the effort is hidden in top 
secret reports or buried, like Dr. John Nor- 
man, in the core of tons of reinforced con- 
crete. 

Roger Casey supposed they still called him 
John Norman, though it was possible he had 
become a number or a symbol by now — a 
Project X in the files of somebody’s safe. . . . 

The man on whom Casey’s mind dwelt 
still thought of himself as John Norman, 
however. The mind patterns of a lifetime 
were, it seemed, tougher than the body 
cells. And in the bright sunlight he might, 
he supposed, still bear some faint resem- 
blance to John Norman. But here in the 
blockhouse he was little more than an amor- 
phous blot of phosphorescence — an animated 
X-ray with the bones showing through, white 
and blurred and the head a grimacing dcuU. 

The blockhouse in which he lived — ^per- 
haps functioned would be a better term for 
it — was some nine by twelve feet in size. He 
often wondered by what process of reasoning 
they had decided on those measurements, or 
if that happened to be the standard size for 
tombs. He had plenty of time to think about 
that now. 

He was not too uncomfortable. They had 
given him a mattress and a pile of eurmy 
blankets. There was a chair and a small 
table. He used them, but he did not really 
need them. 

There were no windows, of course, and the 
heavy door had been sealed by layers of lead. 
He received a supply of air through an alu- 
minum pipe near the roof. An exhaust pipe 
in the floor drew out this air to be decontami- 
nated somewhere, he imagined, out in that 
vast and somber wasteland. But he did not 
need the air either. 

In the beginning, they had decided he 
would require food. So they had constructed 
an ingenious remote-controlled device, which 
was operated through a series of air locks. 
At first he had accepted the food. It had been 
a tangible link with a world that could no 
longer tolerate him. Then he had tired erf k 
and destroyed the cart and the food am- 


THE FISSION MAN 


tainers as often as they had sent them in. 
Finally they had given it up. 

John Norman h^ no clear recollections of 
how he came to be in the concrete cell. It 
must, he thought, have been a difficult job 
for them to get him here. He was aware of 
being lethal — incredibly lethal. And after 
that explosion at Alamogordo he had gone 
completely berserk. Of course they had 
worked it out, as, in time, they would work 
out all problems. 

They had hunted him down with a kind of 
desperate fury. He still remembered the 
intermittment thuds of bullets in his body. 
They had tried to destroy him from the air, 
too, but he had managed to evade the lx)mbs. 

Now he wished that he had not, for he was 
beginning to be a little afraid of himself. 
Tliere was a deadliness in him that matched 
the pK)isonous fission products of his body — a 
simmering, smcddering pool of hate. 

The hatred was not logical. The incident 
had been quite unforeseeable ; his isolation 
was a necessary safety measure. He realized 
that, too, but he was still helpless to combat 
it. This inadequacy hag-rode him through 
a nightmare succession of sudden frenzies. 
He had worn a hollow in the floor pacing 
back and forth during these outbreaks, his 
bare feet thudding ponderously on the ce- 
ment, for his weight was tremendous. 

Except for these periods of stress, he was 
usually quiet. He spent his time in endless 
experiments or in staring out, as he was do- 
ing now, through the concrete walls. 

T he world that John Norman saw was a 
world that might have been created from 
an X-ray plate. It was a world where bone 
patterns wheeled in lazy flight through a dead 
blackness or crawled sinuously over the 
lumine.scent blur that was the ground. 

Sometimes he stared at these moving bone 
patterns too long, and they were stilled for- 
ever. But he tried to be careful. 

He was kneeling now, his head pressed 
against the the rear wall, a pose that had be- 
come characteristic with him, when the sig- 
nal bell jangled out a sudden shrill warning. 
Once they had used this bell to notify him of 
the approach of the food conveyer, but he 
had not heard it for so long that the sound 
was almost like an unexpected blow. 

He turned slowly, the blank eyeholes in 
the glowing skull studying the lead plate 
which covered the air lock. Then, still ca- 
paUe of being moved by a human curiosity. 


137 

he climbed ponderously to his feet and 
crossed over to loosen the wing nuts holding 
the plate. He reached into the air lock and 
slid out a lead-covered, oblong box. There 
was a slender lead cable attached to the 
box. 

The box must have been heavy, really 
heavy, but he handled it without appreciable 
effort, turning it around in his hands to 
examine it. 

He lifted the lid, and almost dropped the 
apparatus when a muffled voice came crack- 
ling out. 

“Dr. John Norman,” the voice said. “Can 
you hear me. Dr. Norman?” 

He glared down at the box until it began 
to fluoresce, then he hastily turned his eyes 
away. 

“Dr. Norman,” the voice went on, “if you 
can hear me, will you pelase call me back. 
This is Roger Casey. You remember me, 
Dr. Norman — Roger Casey.” 

Of course he remembered Roger Casey. 
One of the brighter young men at Alamogor- 
do. A tall youngster, built like a football 
player, with curly blond hair and a flashing 
smile. He remembered Casey and he re- 
membered the smile. 

He crossed over to the table and set the 
box down. He closed the lid and began to 
speak carefully into tire lead baffles. . . . 

Roger Casey’s hair was still blond, still 
curly, but the smile was not in evidence now. 
He stared at the grill in the squawk box as 
though it were possible somehow to follow 
visually the current into the blockhouse. 

He could feel the girl trembling at his 
side. “Do you think he’s still alive, Roger?” 
she asked. “That he can still — ” 

The squawk box sputtered into life, cut- 
ting her short. The voice that came out was 
metallic, without inflection. The words were 
spaced with a machinelike precision. “This is 
Dr. Norman, Roger,” the voice said. “What 
is it?” 

Casey drew in a long, slow breath. He 
had not believed they would receive an an- 
swer. He still could not believe it. He said, 
“Dr. Norman, I am calling you from just 
outside the blockhouse. But, before I go on, 
there is someone here who wishes to talk 
with you. Will you stand by?” 

The girl stepped over, and Casey reached 
ou* a hand to steady her. She said, “Hello, 
Daddy. This is Susan.” 

There was a rather long pause. Then that 
flat, disembodied voice came back, still level. 


STARTLING STCmiES 


138 

stiH unawved. “Hello, Susan. How are you ?” 

“I’m just fine, Daddy,” Susan said. “Are 
you all right — in there?” 

“All right is somewhat generic, Susan,” 
Dr. Norman said. “But suppose we say that 
I am — all right.” 

Susan’s eyes began to brim. “Oh, Daddy,” 
she went on, her voice catching. “I’ve missed 
you so. They said you were dead. They told 
me— that — ^that — ” She broke down then, 
unable to go on. 

“Why don’t you go on back to the staff 
car with Major Carlson, honey,” Casey said 
gently. “You can try it again tomorrow. 
Maybe it’s better if you don’t hear any 
more.” 

He turned back to the squawk box. “This 
is Roger Casey again, Dr. Norman,” be 
said. “Susan will be back again tomorrow.” 

“I understand, Roger.” 

“She’s staying at a little town near here. 
It’s called Las Cruces. . . Do you happen to 
know where you are, 'Dr. Norman? I mean, 
have you any ideas as to the geographical 
location of the blockhouse ?” 

“Only that it is in desert country, Roger, 
and that it is near a mountain range. My eyes 
are rather extraordinary, you know. I am 
able at times to get a beam of radiations 
through.” 

“Good Lord!” Casey exclaimed. “That 
might be dangerous for somebody.” 

“It might be deadly for somebody,” Dr. 
Norman said. "But I try to be careful.” 

“Well — ” Casey hesitated — “to get back to 
the geography — ^the mountains are the Or- 
gans, and you are on the White Sands Prov- 
ing Ground in New Mexico. They’ve been 
experimenting with rockets here since 1945.” 

“What year are we in now, Roger?” 

“This is May of 1949, Dr. Norman.” 

“I find it hard to realize it could have 
been that long, Roger. You say they have 
been experimenting with rockets here. That 
was one of your hobbies, wasn’t it ?” 

“That’s right. As a matter of fact, I have 
been recently placed in charge of the con- 
struction of a multi-staged, free-orbit rocket. ” 

“A free-orbit rocket, Roger?” 

“Yes. We are going to try to drive a rock- 
et out beyond the earth’s atmosphere. At a 
speed of some seven miles per second gravity 
and centrifugal force would balance each 
other, and the rocket would go into free 
flight out in space. It would continue to 
circle the earth once in every one and one 
half hours — a sort of man-made satellite.” 


"I imagine that overcoming the meclrainical 
problems of such a rocket would be exceed- 
ingly difficult, but your greatest obstacle 
would be fuel. You would almost require a 
fissile material, wouldn’t you, Roger?” 

“Well, they made an attempt here in the 
latter part of ’48 to send up a three-stage 
rocket using a conventional alcohol and 
liquid air drive. It failed to get free of the 
earth’s gravitational pull. The rocket we are 
now working on will use alcohol and oxygen 
in the first stage, and a fissile type fuel for 
the laboratory head. The nuclear fuel was 
developed from your own notes. Which 
brings me nicely around to the reason for 
my contacting you. 

“As you know. Dr. Norman, the greater 
portion of your notes was encoded. We were 
unable to decipher them in their entirety, and 
the fuel we developed from the line indicated 
by your experiments has not been always 
predictable. I thought you might be able to 
help us in this.” 

H e tried to make his voice sound 
eager, as though he really expected 
that this weird creature in the blockhouse 
could fit his thoughts again to a human 
pattern. But he had little hope. Science had 
gone forward too far since the physicist’s 
entombment. A man could not step off a 
shooting star and then step back on again. 
Nuclear physics wasn’t a merry-go-round. 

There was a long pause this time, as 
though Dr. Norman was giving the idea 
his full consideration. He said finally, his 
voice giving the first faint indication of in- 
terest, “I bdieve I might be able to help you 
there, Rc^er.” 

“Fine,” Casey said. At least, he thought, 
the scientist would be occupied again. Is^a- 
tion from his work must have been harder to 
bear than separation from the world. “I have 
your notes here with me,” be continued. 
“I’ll have them sent in. Also, I’ll see that you 
get some light.” 

“The light will not be necessary, Roger,” 
Dr. Norman said. “I see easier now by radia- 
tion. The optic nerves appear to be able to act 
as a fluorescent screen.” 

“Oh,” Casey said. The information dis- 
concerted him for a moment. Listening to 
that calm voice, he kept forgetting the extent 
of the change which must have taken place in 
the man. He went on ratlier lamely, “ Susan 
has received a Civil Service ^pointment and 
has been assigned to my department. She 


THE FISSION MAN 


will be able to come out here every day for 
any dictation you might wish to give. I am 
going back East for a consultation at the 
General Electric laboratories, but I shall be 
back in a week or so.” 

“About the fuel,” Dr. Norman cut in. “If 
you can secure a lead container for me, I 
will send out a sample.” 

“A sample!” Casey exclaimed incredu- 
lously. “Do you- mean that you have been 
able to create fissile material in there — with- 
out any equipment?” 

“Why not, Roger? I am afraid you are not 
exactly cognizant of my possibilities. The 
world has been too ready to tag me a thing of 
horror — a dangerous freak, to be hidden be- 
hind locked doors. Yet I might have been 
of inestimable value to mankind.” 

“I am sorry about that. Dr. Norman,” 
Casey said. “But you must understand that 
there was an appalling loss of life involved in 
your — =your subjugation. And the block- 
house was to be only an emergency place of 
confinement. In the beginning they had ex- 
pected your radioactive condition to cool off 
in a hurry. But this has not been the case. In 
fact, the counters have shown an increase.” 

“I am afraid I have u^set many of the 
basic concepts of the radiobiologists,” Dr. 
Norman said. “I was exposed to radiations 
of incalculable roentgens beyond the as- 
sumed lethal dosage, yet I am still, in a sense, 
alive. But if they are waiting for the radio- 
activity in me to die down, they are going to 
have rather a long wait. The ‘half life’ of 
plutonium, Roger, is 25,000 years.” 

“There is another disturbing factor in- 
volved here. Dr. Norman,” Casey said. “We 
are beginning to- wonder if the multiplication 
factor will hold' at 1.00. There are some indi- 
cations that it will not do this.” 

“So now the radiologists have scheduled 
me to go up with a big bang? Well, it is pos- 
sible,” Dr. Norman agreed. “I suppose I 
have become a sort of animated lattice pile, 
with the fissile particles in me moving ever 
closer together. But what do they suggest, 
Roger ? That I drive cadmium rods into my- 
self to retard the neutron transmission?” 

“Hardly that. Dr. Norman.” 

“Perhaps an explosion would be the best 
solution to the problem of the isotopic physi- 
cist, Roger. I am afraid, however, that there 
is a more imminent danger. Long before that 
critical point is reached, I may have loosed a 
grim and fantastic nightmare of horror on 
the world that would be far more inimical 


139 

than a mere explosion in an isolated comer in 
the desert. 

“You see, Roger, I am beginning to de- 
velop symptoms of egomania, coupled with 
a disinclination to remain interred like an 
Egyptian mummy in a tomb. If you will send 
in some writing materials, I will endeavor to 
furnish you with full details regarding this. 
It is serious, Roger.” 

It was, Roger Casey thought, extremely 
serious. Two days later, on an eastbound 
C-47, he considered the import of the in- 
formation Dr. Norman had given him. It was 
not a pleasant subject for contemplation, 
and it placed a heavy burden on a man al- 
ready weighed down with his own problems. 
Casey decided he would have to complete his 
business with the greatest of dispatch. 

A fter the fiasco with the first experi- 
mental multi-staged rocket, the JRDB 
had decided to carry on the construction of 
the second of the satellite rockets without 
publicity and to release information about it 
only in the event of a successful launching. 

Rocket technicians at Wendover and Point 
Mugu had collaborated on the assembly of 
the jet engine, and even among the general 
army personnel at White Sands there was no 
intimation that this was not just another 
rocket laboratory of the type they had been 
sending up since fate in ’48. 

In the end Roger Casey was to be very 
thankful they had decided on this secrecy. 

When Casey returned to White Sands he 
found a sealed envelope, addressed in Dr. 
Norman’s bold handwriting and marked 
“Confidential,” waiting for him. In the cor- 
ner someone had added the notation, “Safe 
to handle.” Casey read the contents of the 
letter with a great deal of perturbation. 

Thereafter he pushed ahead the final as- 
sembly of the rocket as rapidly as possible. 
He found Dr. Norman’s assistance invaluable 
here. The physicist appeared able to antici- 
pate every contingency. It was like working 
with an electron calculator with reasoning 
faculties. Casey ceased to question the various 
changes in design offered by Dr. Norman, 
although some of them were inexplicable to 
him. 

The strain on Casey was terrific. Nor did 
Susan’s presence add to his peace of mind. 
She was completely enthralled with the whole 
business. 

To her that metallic voice which came 
crackling out of the blockhouse was still the 


STAKIUNC: STCmiES 


140 

voice of a tall, gray-haired man whose steady 
blue eyes were surrounded by little crinkly 
laughter lines. He was still her adored daddy 
who had told her fabulous stories and 
brought back exciting presents from his many 
trips. She appeared to have no real concep- 
tion of his actual condition and seemed to 
feel they would soon be back together again 
and everything would then be all right. 

Casey began to dread the necessity of fac- 
ing her across the desk each day. Those big, 
violet-shadowed eyes were gradually taking 
on a slightly misty look both worshipful and 
proud. Casey shrank from thinking about 
what might happen to that look. 

The knowledge of what lay ahead of them 
haunted his waking and his sleeping hours. 
It interfered with his ability to concentrate. 
It was unfortunate, but then love so often is. 
It was the sort of unknown factor which 
could turn even the most carefully controlled 
experiment into a roulette wheel spin. 

In spite of all this, by the middle of July 
the project was far ahead of schedule. Casey 
began to relax, to feel that they still might 
make it. His optimism was to be short-lived. 

It was at this time they found the first of 
the giant tarantulas. A guard killed it on 
patrol. It was enormous, over two feet across. 
The hairs on its body were like wire. It was 
highly radioactive — able to take its own 
picture on a photographic plate. Three more 
of the huge spiders were sighted in quick 
succession, and the Post Commandant or- 
dered out a special MP patrol, equipped with 
protective clothing and masks. 

A few days later a truck pinned down a 
huge rattlesnake lying in the road. It was 
almost as large as a python. They had liter- 
ally to cut it to pieces with a machine gun to 
kill it. It, too, was highly radioactive. 

Finding the snake was the final incident 
which decided Casey that the firing day had 
to be stepped up. 

The night before firing day Casey skpt in 
his office. At four in the morning the OD 
called him. “Dr. Casey,” he said. “This is 
Lieutenant Marion, the OD. The wire en- 
closure around Station U-235 has been 
burned through. My orders are to report to 
you for instructions.” 

“Lieutenant,” Casey said, “pull all ycwr 
men out of that vicinity at once. This is vital- 
ly important. Who discovered the hole?” 

“One of the guards, Dr. Casey.” 

“Did he go inside?” 

“I believe so.” 


“Have him report to the hospital unrae-* 
diately,” Casey ordered. “Also any others-: 
who have been inside or near the force. How 
about yourself?” 

“I went in to check the door on the block- 
house. It appeared to be closed, but it looked 
as though somebody had dragged a heavy 
object away from it.” 

“Better get over to the hospital as soon 
as you can. Don’t wait to complete your tour 
of duty. Where are you now?” 

“At the U-235 control station.” 

“Do they have a CQ or man on duty there 
all night?” 

“That’s right. Hold on and I’ll call him.” 

Casey waited a few moments. A higher, 
slightly nervous voice came back to him. 
“T^is is Sergeant Morrison, sir.” 

“Sergeant,” Casey said, “what about the 
charts ?” 

“Both the temperature and Geiger count 
are dropping fast, sir.” 

“That’s all then, Sergeant. Thank you. 
Will you put the OD back on.” 

“This is Lieutenant Marion again. Dr. 
Casey,” the OD said. 

“Will you call the Provost Marshal’s of- 
fice, Lieutenant,” Casey said. “Have them 
contact me before they take any further ac- 
tion.” 

F or Casey there began a series of stac- 
cato phone calls and squawk box mes- 
sages that followed without a break. By five 
o’clock the firing crews were beginning to 
pour into their stations. The MPs had 
blocked off the highway, and all the usual 
frantic bustle that precedes a rocket launch- 
ing was in evidence, increased now the 
news that something was wrong. 

A pair of guards had been found uncon- 
scious at the base of the launching platform. 
The porthole in the rocket that had been left 
open for last minute instrument checks was 
closed. Casey had stopped a tech sergeant 
from climbing up to investigate just in time. 
After that he had all men cleared from die 
immediate firing area. 

The red rim of the sun pushed into sight. 
It flushed the slender rocket, balanced on its 
fins, with a faint pinkish glow. It looked 
almost ethereal, as it stood there. It was 
slender and sleek — a spire frmn some far off 
space world. 

Inside the command post the usual prs* 
flight tests moved ahead with clamorous but 
precise efficiency. Tension was thick. You 


THE FISSION MAN 


could, Casey thought, have bounced a bil- 
liard ball off it. He was conscious that he 
was being studied with a side-eyed furtive- 
ness as he moved about. 

He glanced at the clock and picked up a 
mike. “Stand by all stations,” he said. “This 
is the command post. All of you know by 
now that this is another attempt to drive a 
rocket out into space. This rocket, as was 
the first of the satellite types, is a staged 
rocket. The first stage is the conventional 
alcohol and liquid oxygen drive. It will take 
the rocket up into the ionosphere. This is a 
safety measure, since the laboratory head is 
nuclear powered. The fission drive will then 
take over until the rocket is out into space. 

“Most of you are aware that we have had 
some trouble here at the launching platform. 
It is true that a high degree of radioactivity 
has become af^rent around the rocket, but 
I am certain that this will in no way affect 
the successful launching of the rocket . . . 
We have named the rocket The Sati — God- 
dess of tlie Sky.” 

He paused a moment to glance at the clock, 
then turned back to the mike. 

“This is the command post,” he said. 
“Stand by all stations. Stand by all stations. 
It is now coming up on X minus five min- 
utes. X minus five minutes.” 

He felt the strain pouring out around him. 
He could sense tlie imponderable force of it 
slamming into taut muscles. He took up the 
count. “X minus four minutes . . . three 
minutes . . . two minutes . . . one minute, 
and the next count will be X minus twenty 
seconds.” 

Hushed expectancy made an icy pool in 
the room. All action hung suspended. Even 
the noise of the instruments seemed to be 
muted, to float back through a liquid still- 
ness. He began the count of the seconds. 

“It is now coming up on X minus twenty 
seconds ... 18 ... 14 ... 10 .. .” The 
count went on, a mechanical hammer thud- 
ding in Casey’s skull. Time seemed to 
stretch out into a blank infinity — to go on 
forever. “. . . 3 . . . 2 . . .” 

It began with a smoky white wisp that 
slid down the fins of the rocket and bounced 
lazily on the launching platform. It began 
with fire that streaked the mist — and then 
suddenly all the blasting fury of hell was re- 
leased in a mighty surge. 

The rocket lifted with majestic disdain, 
bellowing with the insensate rage of a shriek- 
ing hurricane. It moved slowly at first, but 


141 

picked up speed with incredible rapidity. 

Casey wiped the perspiration off his up- 
per lip. The rocket was gone now, and all 
Grand Coulee’s horsepower couldn’t bring it 
back again. It was gone, but it left a ques- 
tion that was to bother Casey ever after. 

He knew that Dr. Norman had to exist. 
He had talked with him, had seen the graphs 
in the U-23S control room. But he also knew 
that. an isotopic physicist was downright un- 
convincing. 

Around him radio speakers clattered into 
life, grinding out routine position reports in 
steady monotones, broken once by the terse 
announcement, “ She’s free of the first stage ! ” 
And, much later, triumphantly, “She’s out 
in space 1” 

That evening the new^apers screamed out 
the headlines of the successful launching of 
the first satellite rocket. Radar stations all 
over the world picked up The SaH and plot- 
ted its orbit. 

For a few days the orbit-rocket was news 
and, for a few more, a topic of conversation 
and speculation. Then it was fitted neatly 
into the prosaic pattern of ordinary things, 
for Science keeps no miracles behind her. 
The strange and the marvelous can have their 
tenuous being only in the ^adowy shapes of 
things to come. 

I N various laboratories, throughout the 
following months, data sent back by the 
orbit-rocket began to amass. But there never 
was any hint that this information was other 
than telematic. The secret of the guarded 
radio, deep in the desert, that recorded a 
flat, metallic voice on wire — the first voice 
from space — ^was well kept. 

On January 15, some six months after The 
SaH shrieked tlirough the ionosphere and 
out into space, radio listeners heard the fol- 
lowing newscast : “We are interrupting this 
program,” the announcer said, “to bring you 
a news flash. A short time ago the satellite 
rocket launched by the Army at White Sands 
was seen to explode over the Pacific. Offi- 
cials can offer no explanation.” 

Roger Casey, sitting with Susan in their 
apartment in Palo Alto, heard the newscast. 
Susan’s lips dipped in a trembling bow of 
tragic roses, and she tugged forlornly at a 
red curl. Then, leaving Casey with the con- 
fused conviction that a fission man was still 
less inexplicable than a woman’s intricate 
mental processes, she said ; 

“Anywj^r, it was a lovely funeral, Roger." 


forbidden 

voyage 



George Carlyle knew the way to get to 
the Moon — but the conscientious 
folk in authority did their 
best to Mock his path! 


142 





1 NTRODUC1 iON : It would seem at this 
far distant time that the literature of Man- 
kind, embellished as it is by thousands of 
great names, by trillions of books by title in 
the hundreds of millions of libraries throughout 
the width and depth of space, might still fur- 
nish some small volume which would give, in 
the human style of the acts themselves, a read- 
able account of Man’s Conquest of Space. 

Today, sitting smugly on his thousands of 
planets, protected and served by a hundred 
millenniums of experience, Man takes history 


for granted and pays never a bow to those re- 
sounding names which composited his Destiny. 
And if he- thinks of them at all, shuttling safely 
across a million light years of space, it is to 
dismiss them for it is so easy now. 

But what high courage it must have taken 
for Man to launch his projects into the mystery 
of space, for he had no answer to a hundred 
million intricate problems, any one of which 
might well snuff out his life. What courage he 
showed and how dauntless must have been his 
spirit ! 



143 



144 STARTLING STORIES 


Not that we lack vast tomes covering the past 
hundred millennia or that our children have 
not been made to study, at tremendous expendi- 
ture of switches, the basic history of our race. 
You can hear thena chanting as they leave their 
schools a number of ditties which make them 
remember dates. 

In Nineteen Hundred Eighty-One 
Jonathan Bates Defied the Sun 

And crying “Wait” to the distant Stars 
Landed staunch on Planet Mars. 

or : 

“Sail on, sail on, and on and on,” 

So spake Sir Timothy Wayne, 

“We must reach Aldeboran 
“Or never jet again.” 

And then we too must have chanted: 

Aye rip the crown from off her side 
Discard her plate by plate. 

Forget her now that she is old 
Abused and signed fourth-rate 

But sirs, ye can’t make Man forget 
The Comet, Ship of Fate. 

Ye can’t make man forget the day 
True Darryl sat her down 

And made heroic history 
Upon Far Lesia’s Maun 

Galaxy to galaxy sped 

To make her high renown. 

We chanted them and in the texts we saw 
their grim visages glaring at us — we conceded 
they were very great. But how much do we 
really know of Jonathan Bates or Sir Timothy 
Wayne or again Darryl and his famous Comet, 
which first spanned the vacuum between 
galaxies 

It is all quite well to say that “There were 
giants in those days,” or, have degenerated 
greatly from those times,” and so excuse further 
expedition now that we have, in truth, con- 
quered space. But it is to be feared that Jona- 
than Bates and Sir Timothy Wayne and Darryl 
and all the rest of that mighty crew were most 
amazingly mortal, even as you and I. 

With little more than wit and courage, pro- 
vided with the most Neolithic equipment, un- 
derstanding almost nothing in any of the fields 
of science, these men yet dared to fling their 
frail bodies into the maw of waiting mystery and 
be damned to the consequences. Some succeeded. 


many died, yet the conquest of space continued 
to triumph over obstacle after obstacle, barrier 
after barrier. 

From time to time it appeared to the stay- 
at-h.o'mes that the effort was so much folly. 
From the first, each time some new project 
into space was suggested, wise men of influence 
and money shook solemn and wise heads over 
this “irrational dreaming”. 

Each time some success was achieved the 
multitudes would applaud and then sit back 
into the complaisance that at last the ultimate 
was reached and the goal could be no higher. 
And yet Mankind found pioneers who did not 
mind the title of “crackpot” and explorers who 
acknowledged no “final horizon.” 

Yes, it is to be feared that we little enough 
appreciate the true difficulties or the breadth of 
the adventures of those heroes who were the 
vanguard in Man’s Conquest of Space. 

Sometimes they were not even appreciated in 
their own periods. Sometimes they were laughed 
down and hounded through the streets by point- 
ing urchins who had been taught to say. “Crazy 
man, crazy man flew to the Moon. Ya, ya, 
yah !” 

Man, from step to step, never did see that 
his salvation lay amongst the stars. In fact, be- 
fore space exploration had begun, the greater 
number of people treated it as a subject of 
laughter and even those who should have known 
better thought that it was a far, far cry and 
would be of dubious benefit. It was into this in- 
credible opacity that George Carlyle was born, 
on the Planet Terra — then called Earth. 

Late in the twentieth century. . . . 

^ ^ s|s 

T here had come a war and like all 
other men of age George Carlyle had 
received a summons from his head of 
state which told him to be prompt, that a 
rifle was waiting for him and war won’t wait. 

Several million young men hastily obeyed. 
George Carlyle couldn’t. 

Now in those days, when individuality was 
hardly more than a catch word in political 
mouths, a man was damned if he went against 
the herd and his freedom of speech and ac- 
tion ended the instant he failed to imitate 
exactly what his state and people decreed. 
It needed more than one mutiny and revolt 
to assert such basic rights of man in their 
true essence. They had not happened in the 
days of George Carlyle. 

Two military men came up to his home and 
rang the doorbell. 

“Carlyle?” said one. 


FORBIDimN VQTAGE 


*^ 65 ,’' said Carlyk. 

“Do you have your draft card?” 

“No,” said Carlyle. 

The two military men looked at eacli other. 
One of them, the swarthy one, grinned wick- 
edly. “Are you crippled maybe?” 

It was a jibe against Carlyle’s build and 
health for, at the age of twenty-six, he stood 
six feet, if thin, and aside from the slight 
stoop and the way the blond hair was matted 
up in front of his eyes, he was very good to 
look upon. Space had not yet left its indelible 
print upon him. 

“No,” said George. “I’m busy.” 

“Let’s go along quietly,” said the swarthy 
one, “and talk it over with—” 

“Can’t,” said George again. “I’m busy.” 

This was very amusing to the two military 
men. They won the argument by laying 
heavy hands on George Carlyle and taking 
lum down to military police headquarters. 

There the sergeant was not kind. He had 
an unaccountable desire for action, had the 
sergeant, and had been refused duty at the 
front. He was a very dried up sixty-one. 

“Conshy?” said the sergeant. 

“Beg pardon?” said Carlyle. 

“You object to the war, I suppose,” said 
the sergeant. 

“Why yes, as a matter of fact I do,” said 
Carlyle. “It is delaying me.” 

“Hmmm!” said the sergeant. “Too bad 
the belligerents aren’t more considerate, 
sonny. Anybody’d think they’d have a^ed 
your permission before they chose this par- 
ticular time to start a war.” 

This convulsed the swarthy one (he was 
trying to make corporal). 

“Now suppose,” said the sergeant, “you 
just come down here and walk around with 
us mortals long enough to tell us why you 
refuse to register.” 

“I don’t refuse,” said George. “I just 
haven’t got time.” 

The captain had more luck. Proteibly the 
interview benefited by the speechless con- 
dition of the sergeant. 

“Objector, eh?” said the captain. “His- 
tory, please.” 

“I’m George Carlyle, aged twenty-six, 
born in Liona, a U. S. citizen, unmarried, 
graduated from State Tech as a physicist, 
living with my grandfather, who is my only 
surviving relative, and, if you please, sir. 
I’m very busy and may I go now r’ 

“Young man,” said the captain, “this is 
a very grave thing. We could send you to 


145 

a prison camp for years and years. 'What 
possible interest could any man place above 
the good of his country?” 

“That all depends,” said George, deciding 
to humor them. 

“I suppose,” said the captain severely, 
“that protecting your country against the 
enemy is not good?” 

“Depends on how you look at it,” said 
George. “You are entitled to your opinion 
of course, but I don’t think war ever did 
anybody any good — individual men or the 
country either. I’d like very much to stay 
and discuss it with you, but really, gentle- 
men . . .” 

They caught him at the door and pulled 
him back. 

“One last chance!” said the captain, 
fringed with despair, “Will you or will you 
not serve your country in the armed forces?” 

“Of course not,” said George. "What on 
earth good would it do anybody to make a 
private out of me? I am trying desperately 
to get this thing done before everybody gets 
himself killed off and every minute I waste 
here—” 

“Get what done?” 

“My space-ship, of course,” said George. 
“Grandfather Carlyle and I — ” 

They drowned him out with laughter. It 
was an imthinking, barbaric age. And at 
last even George realized it He begged for 
a little time and he did not get it. He begged 
for a technician’s status and he did not get 
that. The following day found him at Camp 
Wainwright being issued a rifle. 

They tried to make him drill He couldn’t 
drill. They tried to hdce that stoop out of 
his shoulders. He wouldn’t straighten. They 
tried, to howl him down abotff his project and 
he wouldn’t keep still. 

A WEEK later he found himself doing 
fatigue duty in the administration 
building and the sight of a telephone on the 
absent C.O.’s desk gave him inspiration. 

He sat down in the swivel cliair and asked 
for long distance. When he had that he 
asked for tte Navy Department. When he 
had that he asked for the officer in charge of 
missile design and production. 

“This is General Lather at Camp Wain- 
wright,” said George. “We have a young 
technician here by the name of George 
Carlyle, who is probably the world’s greatest 
authority on jet propi^icm. He is waiting 
for orders and we wondered if you might tej 


WiBTUDW 


m 

able to use him. Carlyle is the name. George 
Carlyle.” 

The Navy thought a while. Very difficult 
and missile prodtiction was not, after all, the 
Bureau of Naval Personnel Very irregular. 
If routine channels . . . 

Carlyle went back to mopping the floor. 
Tlien another thought struck him. He took 
the typewriter in hand and 'wrote the War 
Department that Camp Wmnwright had the 
world’s greatest authority on jet propulsion 
who would be of inestimable service in a 
design lab. He mailed it. 

When they let him out of the guardhouse 
the following month Geoi^e Carlyle was al- 
most reconciled to being a soldier. But not 
quite. 

He had his eyes on the stars and the means 
to get there. But before this he would have 
to study how one gained a purchase on this 
mundane world. 

Nine weeks later he was serving his coun- 
try as a chauffeur to General Banks in Wash- 
ington, D.C. They had assigned him to 
Chemical Warfare in view of his training and 
as a member of the Chemical Warfare unit 
— which nobody was sure how to use — he 
had tired of building roads and had levered 
himself into the transport unit. 

He waited until Banks was mellow after a 
dinner at the Peruvian Embassy. As the 
general rode through the soft warm night 
he was much startled to hear his driver 
speak. 

“What’s that?” said Banks, thinking the 
soldier must have said they were out of gas 
or some such thing. 

“I asked you,” said George, “If it 
wouldn’t be a fine thing if we were able to 
fly to the Moon?” 

The general was very quiet. 

“It is very simple, you see,” said George. 
“By means of middle-range fission and 
enormous velocity (which cuts the required 
mass down very small, you see) a fellow 
could do it in the next couple months. It 
would only be an eight or nine day trip and 
I have a sphere already built and covered 
with asbestos which only lacks a steering 
mechanism to take off for the Moon.” 

George mistook silence for interest. 

“You see, the way I figure,” said George, 
driving with one hand and looking back half 
the time, “this war is pretty petty stuff. 
After all, why fight over tliis one small 
planet? There are countless planets out 
there. And fighting over this cme is stiqnd. 


The thing to do is to go out and find some 
more. If all this effort being expanded on 
war were to go into the conqtKSt of space, 
Man would really have something. 

“Now the way I figure it, if I can just 
get off Earth and to the Moon and back, why 
everybody will see clearly ffiat it’s silly to 
fight about one planet and everybody will 
get down to the main business of colonizing 
other systems and doing something to be 
proud about. Compared to that this war 
isn’t important at all. Silly in fact.” 

Which is why the transport sergeant was 
demoted and why George found himself back 
building roads. 

Every week or so somebody would send 
around questionairres about special skills. 
Each time George had put down “Build a 
space-ship” but finally he grew cunning. 

He pushed the matted hair out of his eyes, 
gnawed the eraser end of the pencil, eyed 
the. paper and put down, “Explosives Ex- 
pert. Adapter of Middle-Range Fission to 
Destroy Whole Cities Without Bombing. 
Former Member of the Communist Party.” 

This got action and George was taken off 
the roads. Intelligence people tried to ques- 
tion him while the F.B.I. went into a frenzy 
to trace him (F.B.I. meaning the counter- 
espionage bureau). 

But all they got out of George Carlyle 
were formulas they couldn’t unravel and laws 
of physics of which they had no record. And 
so they passed him along rapidly until his 
case file fell on the desk “For Information” 
of the organization in charge of all atomic 
energy. 

Eight-thirty of a rainy morning found 
George facing a very solemn and extremely 
worried battery of scowls. The atomic 
energy people took their war bit seriously. 

“Have you or have you not,” said Lester, 
the chairman, “transmitted any information 
you possess to the enemy?” 

“Well—” stalled George. 

“How did you first become possessed of 
this information?” said Lester. 

“I studied nuclear physics and the com- 
position of matter at State Tech,” said 
George brightly. “Middle-range fission — ” 

“Middle-range fission is strictly forbid- 
den !” said Lester. “It is a national secret.” 

“I’m sorry,” said George, “It said right 
there in ffie textbook — ” 

“How did you come by this information?” 
demanded Lester. 

“Why, I studied it in school and I read 


FORBIDDEN VOYAGE 


scientific magazines and all atomic energy 
developments are more or less well known. 
But what I wanted to see you about, gentle- 
men, is my ship.” 

“Hah!” they breathed as one, “A secret 
plane ! ” 

“Nope,” said George. “It is a space- 
ship.” 

“High altitude bomber,” they said sagely 
to one another, “Satellite Observer. Guided 
missile from outer space.” 

“No,” said George, “it’s just a common 
space-ship.” 

“Common!” said Lester. “You mean 
there are others?” 

“Well, no — maybe not,” said George. 
“But we’ve known enough for a very long 
time to build one of these and seeing that 
it wasn’t being done, what with everybody 
being interested in international politics, I 
thought it was about time to try. I haven’t 
done anything new unless perhaps the 
assembly of several old things makes it new. 
But it’s in my back yard at home and with 
about four days work — ” 

“What’s the address?” demanded Lester. 

“Probably false,” said an F.B.I. guard, 
who was cuffed to George. 

“One eighteen Pine Street, Liona,” said 
George. Adding slyly, “It is deadly danger- 
ous and anyone not knowing about it might 
blow up a big chunk of the state.” 

S O THEY took him out to Liona and 
they found the ship. 

In truth, there was nothing extraordinary 
about the craft. It was a big pressure sphere 
made by the local foundry, covered with 
asbestos from the plumbing shop and tubed 
with common lead pipe. But it appeared very 
sinister to Lester and his people. 

Grandfather Carlyle, who had been a 
nuclear physicist in his day, was very peevish 
at George. 

“Where you been?” whined the old man, 
up to his elbows in a lightweight radar out 
of a wrecked airliner. “I’ve had to do half 
of what I’ve done all over. I’ve been so 
worried.” 

“I wrote,” said George contritely. 

“Oh, well — think of that. Guess I must 
have forgot to look in the mail box. But I 
didn’t think you’d be gone more’n ten min- 
utes. I got the water and oxygen licked, 
Georgie. But you’ll just have — Hello? Who 
are all these gentlemen ?” George introduced 
them. 


147 

“Well think of that,” said Grandfather 
Carlyle, wiping off his hands on a piece of 
cotton shirting. “In my day it was as much 
as a man’s life was worth to even whisper 
Atomic Energy Commission and here you 
are. Well, welcome. Look her over if you’ve 
a mind. I’ll have the maid fix us up a little 
Scotch.” 

“Arrest that man also,” said Lester to 
the F.B.I. “Now, young man, what is so 
dangerous here so that we can move this 
thing away?” 

“Oho,” said Grandfather Carlyle. “Under 
arrest, hey. Just like old times back in the 
war of the forties. I remember — ” 

“Never mind that,” said Lester. “Fix this 
thing so it won’t explode.” 

George winked unseen. “It took two 
months to build the fuel into her and trigger 
it. It will take me several days to get it out. 
Grandfather, restore her equipment so she 
can be moved all in one piece and I’ll go to 
work on her fuel supply.” 

Now this was very odd because her fuel 
supply was not even aboard. But Grand- 
father Carlyle had served under Security in 
his day and -he went back to the radar, work- 
ing very fast. 

Lester and. the others wandered about and 
understood little of what was going on, for 
the last requirement of their job was an 
understanding of elementary nuclear physics. 
Impatiently they at last gave over to the 
F.B.I. (which knew even less than the Com- 
mission) and departed for a hotel. 

George Carlyle sighed deeply and began 
to move in the blocks of unstabilized lead 
which was the ship’s fuel supply. Having no 
gamma rays in- its explosion, it made a very 
good fuel, requiring only the precipitation 
of its component energy parts to blast quite 
merrily. 

F.B.I. sat around, too near to permit con- 
versation until George said to them, “Be 
careful of radiation. No telling what it might 
do.” They watched him after that from 
across the yard. 

“Check it carefully. Grandfather. Soon as 
you say the word, off I go.” 

“You think it’s safe, Georgie? By golly, 
these fellows mean business. Just like old 
times. I remember at Los Alamos — ” 

“Remember that we won’t get another 
chance once she’s launched,” said George. 
“Be careful.” 

They were very careful. They rigged up 
a gyro-wheel with a heat motor attached to 


148 STARTLING STORIES 


the inside of the jet tubes and by which the 
whole sphere could be kicked clumsily about 
in space. They fixed the radar so that it 
would magnify and track dangerous particles 
in space to the end of avoiding them. 

They built in a pair of forceps so things 
could be picked up without exiting from the 
ship and they threw in an old Air Force 
stratosphere suit. Disguised- as shielding they 
put aboard iron rations and the gypsum 
which would supply water. 

Lester came to inspect three times. He 
didn’t get a chance on the fourth to see the 
ship. It was gone. 

Grandfather Carlyle and George had said 
their good-bys inside, the old man very 
wistful, for he’d dreamed of this most of 
his life. Then Grandfather Carlyle had taken 
a deep breath and plunged outside shouting, 
“Run! Run for your lives! She’s about to 
explode! Run!” 

The F.B.I. needed no further hint. They 
passed the old man on the way down the 
drive and when they heard a roar behind 
them they were certain they had been too 
slow. It took them about half an hour to 
realize that the scorched spot contained no 
fragments of ship. 

It took them longer to find out they’d lost 
Grandfather Carlyle. The fire department 
came and put out the blaze which had been 
smoldering in Mrs. Cassidy’s chicken coop 
and, when it was gone, the F.B.I. and the 
commission agreed that there was no further 
use staying here. 

Meantime George, for all the layers of 
sponge rubber, was nearly blacked out. He 
weighted seven times his normal and, try 
as he could, it was impossible to pick up his 
ann and cut down the inexorable chewing of 
unstabilized lead. It took fifteen minutes 
for one bar to wear itself out and, at the end 
of that time, the ports were already black. 
Earth gravity got hold of him and the weight 
diminished. 

He looked out the port at a distinct curva- 
ture and was immensely gratified. He rocked 
the gyroscope until he had the tubes pointing 
away from his target and, looking up through 
the top port to find out when, thrust in 
another rod. 

He was somewhat astonished to find the 
air bumpy after a bit, for there must be 
precious little of it up here. And then he 
realized that proximity rockets were trying 
hard to reach him. George did not know 
who had detected him on what screen or 


whether the rockets belonged to friend or 
foe. He was seven g’s heavy and he couldn’t 
have changed it. 

Glad to find himself alive and on course, 
he chose a much smaller rod and fed that. 
Three gravities were still uncomfortable 
enough. But three gravities must be and he 
sat on his rubber cushions and ate the apple 
his grandfather had given him and watched 
the Moon. 

George found out, in the unmarked days 
which followed, that the running of a space- 
ship is not a one-man task. He finally 
abandoned the watch on the radar screen as 
too tiring. He lay full length, stomach flat 
against the mats to ease it, and one by one 
fed the rods to the hungry tubes. 

He would sleep until the lightness of his 
body warned him, he would awake and re- 
place the rod and sleep once more. Or he 
would sit and look through the lead panes 
at the sun and Earth and try to realize that 
he was actually in space. It did him no good, 
for he was much too busy and too tired with 
strain. 

He marked the days by the growth of his 
beard, looking at his reflection in a lead pane 
and fingering his chin. And still he did not 
know how long it was. 

He forgot to awaken at last and only eight 
hours sound slumber brought him around 
to dead tubes, empty air flasks, meteors 
diving madly across his radar screen AND 
THE MOON AS BIG AS EARTH 
RIGHT BELOW. 

He almost killed himself breaking, so 
swift had the Moon’s gravity made the fall, 
and blood was in his mouth when he finally 
eased the ship, with a soundless jar into the 
pumice dust of Luna. 

t "CRATERS fell away from him, moun- 
y tains loomed sharp and incredibly 
lonely above him. George sat there, wiping 
out his mouth so that he could eat a cheese 
sandwich in the comfort of motionlessness. 

He did things which were very sane. One 
look out of his eye at that landscape told 
him that this was to be the greatest single 
danger of exploration in space — loss of 
sanity. 

He didn’t try to take down any descrip- 
tion of the place. He noted the shadow of 
Tycho close by so that he would have the 
time. He snapped as many pictures as he 
could from the ports and then thought about 
getting out. 


FORBIDDEN VOYAGE 


With the forceps he felt of the pumice. 
The way the ship was lying in it, it must be 
very deep. It would take extremely large 
snowshoes to walk here. But he had to do 
it just to say he had set foot on the Moon. 

He put on the old Air Force suit and in- 
flated it. He checked his gypsum and care- 
fully covered his oxygen supply. He put his 
food in a tight locker so that it would not 
explode. And then he opened the port and 
let himself out. 

When the air had stopped rushing by from 
the ship, he dared let go. He sank almost to 
his waist in pumice. It scared him. 

He looked at this immense, ghastly world 
where no sound had ever sounded, where no 
foot had ever trod, a world without storms, 
without rain. A world in which any living 
thing would perish if unguarded for an in- 
stant. 

He was in the twilight zone but the cold 
of the shadow bit. 

The harsh mountains stared down, etched 
in blinding brilliance against the eoal-black 
sky. The plains reached out from his plateau. 

Suddenly he was scared. He began to 
tremble and he wanted to yell. He floun- 
dered backwards through the pumice and 
grabbed the open port. He overreached in 
this slight gravity and struck his fish bowl 
helmet. It steadied him, the noise of it. 

George turned and scooped up pumice 
and put it in a box. He concentrated and 
told himself he had to do it. Finally he got 
out and bucked the ship over until the tubes 
were straight down. His heat dial on the 
suit was on full and he was shivering with 
cold. 

But he had to do it. 

Leaving the port open, he fed little scraps 
of unstabilized lead into the tube. The ship 
jumped and bobbed in bad control about 
five hundred feet off the surface of the Moon. 
When he was over a basalt ledge on the side 
of Tycho, he eased down once more. 

A shudder of the ground unnerved him 
as he started to get out. A giant plume of 
pumice had risen into the air, up, lazily up 
and then oh so slowly down. A huge meteor 
had landed about a half a mile away. 

George took a cinch on his nerve and 
stumbled out on the basalt. Tycho gaped 
hideously, larger than his eye could encom- 
pass. It was suddenly hot, frying hot and 
he hugged a shadow to be instantly cold. 

One by one he picked up rocks and made 
a cairn and when he had it done, he scrawled, 


149 

with stiff gloves and a dull pencil on a piece 
of cheese box: 

George Carlyle 
June, 19 — 

Landed 

and 

Took Off for Earth 

He weighted it down with a stone on top 
of the cairn. No wind or rain would weather 
it. It would be there forever — unless a 
meteor came. 

It was a solemn moment. He looked at 
the pock-marked waste and spread his arms 
wide. "Conquered!” he said. 

George Carlyle had little rest returning. 
He would fall nine-tenths of the way with- 
out power, though he had much more fuel 
than he needed, and he was afraid he would 
fall too fast to stop. 

The fear was almost realized but, when it 
was prevented, another danger came. He 
could watch the Earth turn and as it turned 
he grew frightened at the hugeness of the 
oceans. How easy it would be to fall into 
them and vanish! And so he lazied back, 
waiting for Earth to turn and give him 
North America. 

The gravity was hard to balance. The 
tubes kept slipping out from straight down 
and the gyro had to be in constant use. 
Worn out he was glad to make as good a 
landing as he did, in the middle of a plowed 
field but so hard that the tubes crumpled. 

T he farmer came out with a shotgun 
while his wife phoned the army that the 
enemy had finally fired an atom bomb and 
George tumbled forth to his welcome. 

He breathed the air and he looked at the 
land. The sky was blue and the trees were 
green. 

“All right, you,” said the farmer. “We 
been warned about spies and secret weapons. 
Stay right where you are.” 

“Don’t ever let it go,” said George, a little 
hysterical from lack of sleep. “Life. You’ve 
no idea how it changes a place. Air — ^won- 
derful!” 

And so the Army came and took him away 
and in Washington, D.C. he and Grandfather 
Carlyle, hunted down at last, took a solemn 
reprimand from the energy people. 

“For there is no telling,” said Lester, 
“whether or not you did g© to the enemy 
in this craft and give them our mobilization 
secrets. In this srrave national emergency, 


STARTLING STORIES 


150 

when the loyalty of every man must be 
established beyond question ...” 

“They ain’t changed a bit,’’ whispered 
Grandfather Carlyle. “In my day they — but 
look here, Georgie, did you plant it?’’ 

“A big cairn,’’ whispered George. “A 
note in the top of it on the bottom edge of 
Tycho. You bet I did! But, Grandfather, 
why won’t they listen? It’s so awful easy. 
If I could get to the reporters with these 
pictures — ’’ 

“Now stop fretting,” whispered Grand- 
father Carlyle. 

“But they won’t listen to me. They won’t 
look at my evidence. And they wouldn’t 
let me keep any of it.” 

Grandfather Carlyle nudged him to silence 
and indicated Lester. 

. For the Honorable Stephen P. Lester, 
high among (he high, power of powers, still 
spoke. 

“. . . so that Man may be free to work 
in peace and harmony upon this planet. It 
is then the studied opinion of this council 


that while you have done wrong in seeking 
to escape us, the better course is to permit 
you to have the honor of returning to your 
duties in your former unit and organization. 
For this nation needs every man who can 
carry a rifle. Nothing more will be said. 
You may leave.” 

Nothing more was said. Not for many, 
many years, when a ship piloted hj Jonathan 
Bates, who was “flying to the Moon on 
Man’s maiden voyage” (as the papers said), 
saw tracks imperishably preserved near 
Tycho and, landing tliere, found the cairn. 

George Carlyle 
June, 19 — 

Landed 

and 

Took Off for Earth 

It made news for a day and the papers ran 
it as a mystery in the supplements and then 
forgot it. For the only George Carlyle of 
record had, almost of the same date, been 
-killed in action. 


THE ETHEH VIERATES 

(Continued from page 10) 


chines, journey back to an England of 70,000 
years ago to do a spot of ancient big-game 
htmting. 

There they enjoy fun and game until a 
one-eyed Neanderthal native whom they 
have befriended brings them a magnificent 
cut diamond in gratitude for their gifts and 
favors. Me then leads them to a cave in 
which is stored a tremendous cache of jewels 
and precious metals, aH beautifully worked 
and all obviously anachronisms in ilie world 
of 68,000 B. e. 

How the stones got fliere and the resulting 
contest for their possession are the elements 
of action and suspense that make THE LOOT 
OF TIME a story which deserves another day 
in print. It is swift and sure and belongs with 
the great science fiction yarns of years ago. 

Other novelets and short stories will be 
culled from a star-studded list of authors 
that includes Ray Bradbury, Jack Vance, 
Bill Temple* Rene LaFayette, Blair Reed, 
Noel Loomis and William Stockhecker. And 
Ye Edde wiS be back with his burblings, 
blithe or otherwise* in the three departments, 
THE ETHER VIBRATES, THE SCIENCE 
FICTION BOOK SHELF and THE REVIEW 


OF THE SCIENCE FICTION FAN PUBLI- 
CATIONS. 

All in all, March will be an issue we like. 
Our fondest hope is that you will agree with 
us. 



F an Raymond J. Van Houton has recent- 
ly asked us to caU to your attention the 
existence of The Fantasy Veterans Associa- 
tion, of which he is temporary secretary. He 
urges all stfan-vets to write Temporary 
Commander James V. Taurasi, 101-02 North- 
ern Boulevard, Corona, Long Island, New 
York, for application blanks of other infor- 
mation concerning the new Association. 

It sounds like an interesting idea — al- 
though there is always the possibility that 
such a setup may deprive science fiction fol- 
lowers of sorely needed homogeneity by 
separating one whole group of followers of 
the fantastic from those who did not get into 
uniform. We choose to reserve decision and 


THE ETHER VIBRATES 151 


leave the rest up to you. 

Now, for the letters. Of late — and it is 
partly our fault for not applying the editorial 
shears when and where needed promptly 
enough — many contributors have been tee- 
ing off on each other, writing long columns 
of answers to all the letters in the previous 
issue. It’s been getting mighty duU, mighty 
dull, for all those not concerned with the 
japery. 

So, from here on, such pen-pal stuff is out 
in these pages. We are looking for ideas 
from readers, not merely story criticism and 
private jokes. Those that come up with them 
get the accolade of an Editorial blade or buss 
(depending upon the writer’s gender, nat- 
urally) — those that fail to emerge with at 
least the slim germ of an idea get the basket. 
Selah. 

Meanwhile we are opening the letter 
bazaar with a truly remarkable epistle, to 
wit — 


WE'RE GRATEFUL TOO 

by Russell (“Rusty”) Doss 

Dear Sir: This week I read my first "thick” book 
and. thanks to your amazing magazine, STARTLING, 
I enjoyed my first. 

My mother told me that I was getting to an age 
where I should read more "educational” magazines. 
So. with anger in my head, and coins in my pocket. 
I tossed my comic away and headed uptown. I 
moodily walked in the first magazine store I chanced 
upon, tossed some change on the counter, and asked 
for a Western. 

But they were sold out on Westerns and, by pure 
chance, I saw the book with a girl on the front and 
a hideous looking thing eyeing her, from another 
planet. I saw the September Issue of STARTLING. 

Why not — it looked interesting, and it probably 
would be educational, if it was about things like space 
travel. So I took it. Twenty minutes later I was in 
a new world. My mind was whirling. Such words a 
Mekka-Betty-Keith-many universes-and Dopelle were 
whirling through my mind, for I was reading WHAT 
MAD UNIVERSE. This story was so interesting I can’t 
explain if. 

The thoughts — the fiction — the drama and the way 
the story was explained. I don’t know how much 
Mr. Brown made from that story, but he should have 
made more. I am 12 years old, and I understood every 
piece of that story. The same with THE RAT RACE, 
SHENADUN, etc., etc. However, I didn’t get interested 
in “ETHER VIBRATES.” 

Excuse me while I finish burning my comics. — 609 
North 5th Street, Lafayette, IndUma. 

WeU, goody for you. Rusty! It’s nice to 
know we’ve made at least one convert, and 
it is our hope that you enjoy a lot more 
issues of SS and its companion magazine, 
THRILLING WONDER STORIES. 

Write us again and let us know. 

OH-OH! 

by R. L. Farnsworth 

Gentlemen: I diould like to point out a typograph- 


ical error in, my article "First Target in Space” in 
your September issue. On page 99, line 5, it should 
be minus 80" C. I think that you have a fine oppor- 
tunity as a science fiction mag and if you will trim 
your pages, get Bonestell to do some astronomical 
covers, keep getting authors like Van Vogt, and avoid 
repetitious plots (hke “plurality of worlds”: a purely 
philosophical concept) you will certainly go places! — 
Glen Ellyn, Illinois. 

Okay, we’re sorry but our edges stay un- 
trimmed. Don’t ask us why, they just do. 
Frankly we’ve been having a tough time 
getting our authors off the plurality of 
worlds theme. Apparently it goes to their 
heads like Chateau Yquem or at any rate a 
couple of glasses of cooking sherry. Who’s 
Bonestell? 

SNIFFING THE BUNG 

by H. T. McAdams 

Dear Editor: 1 am taking you up on your editorially 
expressed invitation for moughts and ideas relevant 
to science fiction. Please excuse me for getting to the 
meat of the problem without the customary salutatory 
flomishes of the more experienced fen. 

When I ponder the infinite inventiveness of mathe- 
matics, I wonder at the sterility of ideas in science 
fiction, 

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” 

Commendations are therefore due such eflorts as 
those of Margaret St. Clair in her "Aleph Sub one.” 
The fact remains, however, that science fiction has not 
even begun to tap the rich winekeg of mathematics; 
it has only miffed a bit at the bung. 

Scientists are in general convinced that every phy- 
sical event can be reduced to a mathematical formula. 
What about the converse? Would it be presuming too 
much to believe thSt all mathematics, however ab- 
stract, has a physical interpretation? 

How often has mathranatics outstripped physical 
science! Imaginary numbers have long since ceased 
to be Imaginary, and- the geometry of Lobachevsky has 
recently been applied to a theory of visual perception. 
This does not mean to say that science fiction should 
read like a, calcultis textbook — that is expressly ver- 
boten — but the^- ideas implied in certain of the more 
abstract phases oP mathematics might well be injected 
into science fiction to yield surprising and novel re- 
sults. In this way the bare bones of mathematics 
might 

"... suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange.” 

Am I too va&e^Do you clamor for something more 
specific? Consider* this: 

Science fiSfion has done its share of toying witii 
finite and infinite-universes, but what has it done wilh 
the dual concepts of bounded and unbounded uni- 
verses? Oh, po, they’re not the same! And we’ve had 
dimensional phantasies galore, but how many get be- 
yond the rather hackneyed concept of time as the 
fourth dimension? 

After all, the fourth dimension doesn’t haue to be 
time. The concept of ■ dimension is strictly an out- 
growth of the theory of combinations appliM to point 
sets (this I can prove) and any equation in four un- 
knowns represents a four-dimensional situation, even 
if those unknowns are only nuts and raisins. 

Again, space has-been warped to H— and back, but 
what has science fiction had to say about the in- 
variants, those properties which remain unchanged 
regardless of any distortion short of cutting or tearing? 
All of which bripgs me to my main thesis: the 
topological (non-metrfc) aspects of mathematics re- 
main a virgin field for science fiction. 

Concerned as it is with problems removed in space 
and time from the Here and Now, science fiction often 
finds Itself ensnarled in the discussion of "alien cul- 
tures.” Wonderful ingenuity is directed toward the 
creation of beings which are physically alien par 
excellence, but mental traits are pretty generally lost 
sight of in the mad rat-race to produce bigger and 
better Bems. 

Whether they be animated ant-hills or supermen. 


152 STARTLING STORIES 


BUch beings all too often retain strictly human logic 
and strictly human emotions. Such departures as are 
made are usually only Incidental; they do not repre- 
sent emotions and ways of thinking which are 
topologically different from those in our Terxan frame 
of reference. 

If this seems vague, may I suggest that it is not 
Inconceivable for some beings to be perfectly at home 
with a transflnite number system and yet be com- 
pletely ignorant of what someone has appropriately 
dubb^ “the wonderful wonders of 1, 2, 3,?" If metrics 
and topologies are dual concepts, as there is good 
reason to expect, what is to prevent the development 
of a culture whose logic is based upon analytical 
topology rather than upon analytical geometry of the 
Cartesian type? 

It is a pet theory of mine that any function can 
be represented as a topological configuration of points 
as well as by a space curve. Ergo, as G. O. Smith 
would say, the question “How far is it from the Mare 
Imbrium to the Crater of Copernicus?” might be com- 
pletely unintelligible to a Lunan, who would con- 
sider the problem in terms of topological manifolds 
and point sets. I think that Bob Williams might jiKt 
possibly have been hinting at something like this in 
"The Seekers,” with his teleket, “the awareness of the 
pattern of things.” 

It is difficult to know to what extent the failure 
to think boldly is associated with subconscious inhibi- 
tions. There is just a chance, however, that revolu- 
tionary ideas may more readily sneak past that little 
man whom the psychologists call the “Censor” if these 
ideas are camouflaged in abstract mathematical sym- 
bols unintelligible to the conscious mind. 

But since your inhibitions are not necessarily my 
inhibitions, you may be able to interpret my mathe- 
matical nightmare as a very real, but very fantastic, 
dream. One man’s meat and all that sort of thing. 

So if any of you fans have any ideas along this 
line, let me hear from you. We might be able to 
accumulate enough material to support a fanzine de- 
voted to the cause. How about it? — 564 Logan Street, 
Bethalto, Illinois. 

Though tempted, thanks to our ignorance 
of higher math, to lapse into a frammis-on- 
the-portestan flipness, we refrain. Mr. Mc- 
Adams’ idea of how aliens might be treated 
with the accent on systems of numbers, 
points or old garter belts is one of the most 
stimulating we have ever received. 

Furthermore, it deals directly with one of 
our pet peeves — the inability of most authors 
to grasp any concept of “alien-ness.” Lein- 
ster came close some years ago in his DE 
PROFUNDIS but offhand we cannot think of 
another successful science fiction story which 
stressed such a creature. 

Perhaps, since you marshal ideas deftly 
and write with some authority, Mr. Mc- 
Adams, you might care to expound your 
ideas on the treatment of aliens in a full- 
fledged article. If you do, please give us first 
crack at it. We aren’t kidding and this is an 
honest invitation. 

Handled correctly it should be a dilly as 
well as a spur and guide to certain of our 
writers, who shall be nameless for the nonce. 

A BIG BOOT 

by Chad Oliver 

Dear Editor: The publication of Fredric Brown's 
What Mad Universe in the September SS strikes yours 
truly as being of a significance at least equal to the 


invention of the atomic bomb and fire. Even in the 
glorious early days when SS was printing yams of 
the quality of Weinbaum’s The Black Flame, William- 
son's The Fortress of Utopia, Binder’s Five Steps to 
Tomorrow, and Wellman's Twice in Time, I doubt that 
a sto^ so unique as the Brown tale could have seen 
the light of print. Its emergence now adds emphasis 
to the notion that both SS and TWS have broadened 
and expanded their editoral fields — for the better* 
I hasten to add. 

I really got a kick out of What Mad Universe, and 
not just because my letter was the key to the whole 
story. Gad, no — perish the thought and boil it in oil! 
I particularly enjoyed the episode in which the BEM 
asked the hero for a match — ^not to mention the hilari- 
ous take-off on fan science in the sewing-machine 
^isode, I kinda thought that maybe Brown had 
slipped up toward the end and would find himself 
with an extra hero on his hands, but he took care 
of that very nicely. My sincere compliments to 
Fredric Brown — ^may he wave in triumph forever. 

The Hall of Famer by Miller is a good example of 
a paradox from the Good Old Daze — the beautiful 
writing of a corny story. Now. very often, it’s the 
other way around. Still, Tetrahedra of Space was 
hokay. MacDonald shows great promise in Shenadun — 
I wish that he had ended it some other way; the 
radionepisode didn’t seem to harmonize very well 
with the rest of the story. Rat Race had a nice idea, 
and Vance would do infinitely better if he would 
forget about space pirates, the curse of science fiction. 

Zoimds, that Bergey cover. I can dream up screwier 
BEMs than that cold sober. — Joe Doppelberg, Harper 
iSffar Route, Kerrville, Texas. 

Okay Joe — Chad. You don’t leave us much 
to say. We are in hearty concurrence with 
your ESP (etheric space pirates) ideas but 
like the SHORTCUT so well we bought it 
anyway. We liked that sewing machine too. 
It reminds us of an odd episode which oc- 
curred during the preparation for the printer 
of the Fred Brown opus. 

In sweating out the inside blurb atop pages 
12-13 we finally came up with a honey that 
had just enough letters to fit. It looked swell 
till we read it aloud. 


THE WORLD OP DOPELLE IS A FABULOUS PLACE 

WHERE MEN IN JALOPIES ARE MASTERS OF SPACE! 


Came the horrid dawn. We had written 
a comic rhyming couplet where suspense, 
drama, scope, peril and perhaps a couple of 
aspirin tablets were indicated. So, regret- 
fully, changes were made and the lovely lilt 
went out of it. Contrary to popular belief, 
editing isn’t all fun. 

OUR NON-SKID AUTHORS 

by George Freeman 

Dear Editor: Allow me to compliment you on the 
general excellence of your last few issues. Particularly 
your latest issue of SS. The story, WHAT MAD UNI- 
VERSE, added a fresh note to the somewhat run of 
the mill stories concerning space travel, warfare and 
the like, using a new approach to a somewhat over- 
worked theme. It had that touch of humor and satire 
that I consider so necessary to good STF. The refer- 
ence to one Joe Doppelberg was strangely reminiscent 
of the old hack letter days. 

While on the subject of the past, I was comparing 
some of my old issues of SS and TWS with the 
latest few issues. The stories have improved remark- 
ably . . . thou^ on the whole authors of these have 
not changed a great deal. What ho, an editorial 


THE ETHER 

shakeup? And a glance through readers' sections, old 
and new, revealed an even more surprising fact. . . . 
Isn’t it amazing how some of the old tried and true 
fans suddenly learned how to compose a comprehen- 
sive letter? One might call it the renaissance, a re- 
markable revival of learning. 

J like the brisk note you have achieved by the 
addition of new authors to your retinue. A new 
author every issue. A few more additions like Ray 
Bradbury would make your mags peerless in the STF 
field. He, Ray Bradbury, was always a first rate weird 
and fantasy writer, (so I have it from Chad Oliver) 
and now shows great promise as a STFiction writer. 
More of Bradbury. 

Anent this Kuttner-Merritt controversy . . . Who’s 
Merritt? (no offense, please) For my money, Kuttner 
stands ahead. 

With regards TEV; I read, and in some cases en- 
joyed the readers comments . . . i.e. As far back as 
I can remember, the cover artist has stood the brunt 
of the readers’ wrath. Bergey in particular. Fans, lay 
off him, he’s not such a bad fellow even though his 
pics are sometimes overdone. You still buy the mag, 
don’t you? — 82Q Avenue H North, Saskatoon, SaskaU 
chewan. 

Editorial policy in regard to stories has 
changed considerably, especially in the last 
five years. Stories that were once of standby 
type are no longer accepted and many yarns 
which would have been considered over the 
heads of most of our readers are now bought 
whenever they seem to have sufficient merit. 
The trend has been away from blood and 
thunder and space opera, toward a somewhat 
(we hope) more adult level. We’ll run 
pseudo-science as heavy as any of the rest 
of the field today, 

The authors who have hung on through 
this transition are all first rate craftsmen, 
who know their stuff and how to produce it. 
Just about all we have to do is tell them 
what we want. As for the fans whose letters 
have improved — well, methinks they’ve been 
growing up too, some of them. 

P.S. Thanks for the defense of Bergey — 
even though he really doesn’t need it. He 
is actually a highly imperturbable gent with 
a small grey mustache and a large sense of 
humor. Maybe he needs it at that. 

FAERIE QUEEN 

by Frances Schneider 

Dear Ed: I shall not enter the Kuttner-Merritt feud. 
Both authors turn out excellent work and I have 
nothing new to add to the old arguments. However, 
although it may anger some of your fans, I would 
like to discuss Lovecraft, particularly his writing In 
what has been called his horror-Cthulhu-Mythas mood. 

Lovecraft seems to be a perfect craftsman, his stories 
are almost above reproach on that point, but I am 
completely repelled by the pathological nature of these 
stories, by his obscene digging for the last festered 
flaw of the once normal and human. Good horror 
stories may be written without sinking to the abomina- 
ble depths which Lovecraft uses to obtain his effect. 

I shall probably be thought a light-minded fool who 
likes fairy tales. Well, I do like them but I can also 
enjoy a good horror story when it isn't of the Love- 
craft variety — when the story can make your flesh 
crawl without playing upon repulsion at odious ab- 
normality. I fail to imderstand the type of personality 
which revels in the Lovecraft stench of decadence. 

Leave Lovecraft and let us take un the Sentember 


VIBRATES 153 

issue. The longer TEV section is extremely welcome, 
particularly as it was the only really good thing this 
time. WHAT MAD UNIVERSE had several good mo- 
ments but on the whole it was a far cry from the ex- 
ceptionally good story I had expected. RAT RACE also 
had an amusing ending but it moved slowly. 
SHENADUN had a good idea but it wasn’t developed. 
TETRAHEDRA was up to the other stories, which 
seems to suggest that the whole iswe was rather 
mediocre. Yon can do much better than this. — 2509 
Clifton Avenue, Cincinnati, Ohio. 

Well, praise Allah, you seem to be in a 
minority on both counts, Frances. 

RED OF PUSS 

by Peter John Ridley 

Oh, most illustrious, one. 

Oh, father of all editors. 

Oh, oracle of vjisdom. Greetings, 

Is my physiognomy crimson! There ought to he 
a law compelling artists to sign their work. Have just 
finished the September SS. I’m glad to see you run- 
ning an artlele. Hope it becomes a habit. 

Regarding the literary line-up — 

TETRAHEDRA OF SPACE, an easy first, a real 

science fiction yam. 

WHAT MAD UNIVERSE, a good fantasy. 

SANATORIS SHORT CUT. best of the shorts. 

RAT RACE and SHENADUN, not so hot. 

Kerens hoping the editorial dignity has recovered 
enough from “My Dear Chappie” to appreciate the 
heading of this epistle. Comrhents on your artwork 
are noticeah'e bv their absence (sardonic laughter). — 
268 Well Hall Road, Eltham, London, S.E. 9, England. 

All is forgiven, Peter. For those who 
missed, the occasion upon which Mr. Ridley’s 
rubricity of countenance is based, he praised 
a Finlay illustration in the Mav issue which 
was actually the work of Vern Stephens. The 
“My Dear Chappie” business is self-explan- 
atory. 

RICH AND SPARKLING 

by Wilkie Conner 

Dear Editor: What Mad Universe is, I believe, one 
of the most unusual novels SS has ever published. 
It is rich in satire, filled with sparkling humor. Only 
an stf editor or an author well versed in the me- 
chanics of stf could have written such an unusual 
masterpiece. This nbvel really indicates to just what 
extent stf can go. Every known form of literature 
has its niche within the bonds of this great literary 
form. 

Your typography and interior artwork continue to 
improve. Keep on improving and you’ll be the 
slickest pulp on the stands — if, indeed, you aren’t 
already! Just think how impressive those luxurious 
Finlays would look on machined paper — how a dai^ 
of color would set-erff the whole thing. Ah, yes, I 
am afraid I am still a dreamer. 

“Astra” Zimmer slings a mean pencil. I always look 
forward to reading her letters^— Box 2392, West Gas- 
tonia, N. Carolina. 

Miss Zimmer seems to be lamentably 
among the missing this time around, Wailkie. 
And now, to balance your fulsome apprecia- 
tion, a beef from another quarter. 


SABOTAGE 

by Wally Weber 

Dear Shmo: Just returned from tlie wilds of Ouincy 


154 STARTLING STORIES 


where I sabotaged the wheat crop. By working with 
a hacksaw on strategic parts of the harvesters it was 
possible for me to gain enough free time to enable 
my perusual of the SSS (September St^artling Stories) 
to occur. In a couple of days the Ritzviliites will 
start in on the golden grain and once again the 
curse of manual labor will have me in its grimy grip. 
Perhaps, if toe OTWS arrives in time, it will be 
necessary to renew my nefarious activities; otherwise, 
nought remains but toil — or something. 

But on with the boring details of toe September ’48 
version of your putrid pulp. What madness has taken 
possession of your limited mental machinery that you 
utterly disregard my suggestion that you abolish your 
letter section and, instead, actually enlarge the revolt- 
ing sludge-department t Sir, (the term is loosely used) 
toou art fallen into the heathen tentacles of Ghu 
frwn which none escape and few survive. Gad, goon, 
take heed of the words authored by Agee Jr. of Vir- 
ginia and cease this folly or suffer the 
cons^uence: i.e., letters from Wigodsky and LeRoy. 

Incidentally, since H was brought up in your com- 
ment on Schaver’% letter, what is this “Weber & Fields 
fiasco” all about? I’ll even meet you halfway and look 
up the meaning of fiasco myself. 

Fredric Brcfwn^s “Astonishing Complete Novel” left 
me with an irksome query; how about the Keith 
Winton who already lived in the universe Keith 
Winton ended up in. I should think that he would 
object to somebody walking in and taking over the 
chain of magazines that he had s^ent his entire life 
building up. 

Another auerv: IN WHAT WAY DOES THE COVER 
ILLUSTRATE THE NOVEL????? and? Now come clean, 
you didn’t mean it did you? There must be a simple 
esrplanation — a blind man in the art department; a 
drunken fan on a visit; a dero in the press — anvthing 
to prove it wasn’t intentional. I’ll believe practically 
anvthing but toat. 

Try to imagine the September cover without the 
girl on ft and vnu see one of the best stf covers since 
the Au'nist ’tS TWS. Just try it once and see if you 
don’t. Without the dame, it looks as if the monster 
was reaching for you, — Box No, 858, Riteville, Wash- 
ington. 

Well, with the wheat all winnowed or 
whatever is done to it, you should be reclin- 
ing on your — er — shoulder-blades, Wally, 
taking life easy until time for the next Big 
Haircut rolls around. Qukicv, Illinois, eh? 
Isn’t that the home town of Fritz Oster- 
mueller, the veteran Pirate left hander? 

There’s an amusing yarn about him. Last 
summer, after Ditching a night game against 
the Cai-ds, Fritz, who is in his forties, got 
permission to go home and visit his family. 
The plane stewardess spotted his name, came 
over to him with one of those winning smiles 
and said, “Oh, Mr. Ostermueller, I’m so glad 
you’re with us. You must have some to St. 
Louis to see your son pitch.” 

Well, back to stf and Weber. You seem to 
read TEV, whatever the length, which is all 
we ask. As for Weber and Fields- — well, for 
many decades -they were the leading comedy 
team of American music halls, vaudeville 
and whatever. Weber has long since been 
dead but Lew Fields, we believe, is still alive. 
He did his last acting, as himself, with Fred 
Astaire-Ginger Rogers in that Vernon-and 
Irene-Castle movie they did. 

You bloomered on the Keith Winton prob- 
lem, Wally. Naturally, the Keith Winton of 
our hero’s ultimate world in WHAT MAD 


UNIVERSE had been liquidated by the 
moon-rocket. Our Keith simply stepped into 
his shoes, the lucky dog. 

YATATA YATATA 

by Neil Graham 

I have just finished the September SS and, of course, 
TEV. Such a lot of people all talking at once I So 
I might as well add my two cents worth. 

SHENADUN was good. WHAT MAD UNIVERSE— 
hmnjm. Editor. Surprising Stories. Say, wait a minute, 
could Ye Ed have written this one? No? Yes? SANA- 
TORIS SHORTCUT was fair. RAT RACE was poor 
and the HoF “classic” (I don’t think!) was awful. 
While on the subject of the HoF I nominate AFTER 
THE ATOM, (SS, May. 1948) for 1958. 

This is the place to say something witty but ’pon 
my soul, I can't think of anything to say. So I’ll 
say good-bye. — R. R. No. 4, Mitchell, Ontario, Canada. 

Ye Edde is not Fredric Brown under his 
own or any other name. Sorry. 

TENSTRIKE 

by Linda Bowles 

Dear Editor; Well, wotta ya know! Bergey put out 
a fairly good cover this ish. Mind you, I said fairly 
good. I’ve seen some good covers by him but it’s sure 
been a long, long time. 

For the benefit of one of the readers who asked 
toe fans to rate the stories, I toall proceed to do so. 
Bartender, set up fr^ drinks for toe authors. A .“miall 
gla^ of warm beer for the worst stories, a chilled 
glass of wine for toe good and a tall, icy mint julep 
for the best. 

WHAT MAD UNIVERSE— one julep for Mr. Brown, 
And make up two more for John and Dorothy, who 
gave us RAT RACE. 

TETRAHEDRA OF SPACE earns for Mr. Miller a 
small fflasR of warm beer. 

SHENADUN was well written. What shall we give 
Mr. MacDonald? How about a glass of the best sherry 
in the house? Okav? 

Now comes Mr. Vance’s SANATORTS SHORT CUT. 
For him, only the best is good enou^. You may 
have the nick of th^ house, sir. Here’s to yal I’ll 
sti^'k to sompthine milder myself. Say, soda pop. 

THE ETHER vtRRA'trc; — indeed it does. Now, if 
you’ll exeuse me. T think I’ll eo scout up an ice-cold 
brant^e ade. This beak is netting me down. — 

931 North Jackson, Topeka, Kansas. 

Oksiy, Linda. We’re cutting down on 
straight criticism letters but we heartily ap- 
prove your rating system. More. 


VLOOT, VLIET 

by D. Carter (“Doc”) Hoyt 


Dear Sir: I doubt that any fair-minded person will 
“jump on” Mr. Clark after reading his letter in the 
September issue of STARTLING STORIES^ He has 
set forth an observatimi that is well-thought-out and 
clearly prefaced by considerable personal observa- 
tion. He raises several points that I would like to 
discuss. 

The first of these is foimd in the lead novel of 
STARTLING, namely one JOE DOPPELBERG. Here 
is the fan, who because of youth or fixation at an im- 
mature level of develc^ment, finds in STF (to borrow 
a term) a dream-world. Here for him is a place 
where ugty reality does not encroach upon ideals 
or aspirations. Here “right will out" and toe hero 
will inevitably gain the heroine. Too, there is the 
appeal for the incurable idealist who cannot or will 
not face toe truth. 

The second point, that STF is more widely divorced 
from reality than other types of fiction, is a too- 


THE ETHER 

broadly-drawn generalization. One has only to go to 
the "popular novel” of today with its oversexed and 
subliterate characters cavorting in a "Romantic” set- 
ting, to see that here too is a playground for the 
frustrated or repressed. 

Thirdly, that writers of Science-Fiction or Fantasy 
set forth their stories merely to please the childish 
or neurotic impulses of one segment of their readers, 
is not to be considered. They do write so as to reach 
the lowest common denominator of the group that 
reads their oiferings. This is the well-known practise 
of “slanting,” whether for the "slicks” or the "pulps." 
Lurid covers are another commercial appeal to the 
mean, hence their use. 

The fourth point concerns science as a panacea. 
Since some readers’ connection with science is only 
within the pages of STF magazines, and a great many 
others (including many writers) know only a smat- 
tering, science, in itself has assumed a position of 
omnipotence. It is a reaction akin to that of the 
primitive to a medicine-man. 

Lastly, “escape” reading. My own enjoyment of 
literature comes from the ideas presented there. If 
the work happens to fall into the "escape” category, 
so what? So long as one is not an emotional deviate, 
“escape” reading is good for the mind. After all, 
the mind as well as the stomach cannot be fed on 
an inflexible diet. 

To answer Mrs. Firestone’s letter, scientists have 
discovered a star with a satellite. It is a binary and 
has a single planet. Location and names escape me. 

The January issue marks the tenth anniversary of 
.STA-RTLING STORIES, but no tumult or shouting — 
why? I think that you are to be congratulated on ten 

ears of service to the fleld of imaginative literature. 

have been with you from the beginning, and I hope 
to continue the pleasant association as long as pos- 
sible. Today, STARTLING STORIES is the best of 
its fleld; may it ever be so. — 403 Second Avenue, 
Watervliet, Neiuj York. 

Thanks for the pleasant conclusion to a 
thoughtful and extremely interesting letter, 
Doc. We’ll do our utmost to keep things on 
an interesting and entertaining level between 
covers. For comment on our first ten years, 
see the last (November) issue. We prefer to 
confine the tumult and the shouting to the 
stories and to TEV, where they belong. 

Your previous points are well taken and 
find us in hearty concurrence right down 
the line. In fact', if you have been following 
our editorials here and in our companion, 
TWS, you’ll have long known this. 

As for slanting, we consider it one of the 
banes of our existence. Whenever we receive 
a story, from author or agent, introduced by 
a note which states that the enclosed litera- 
ture (?) has been prepared especially with 
ourselves in mind, we approach it with all 
of the reluctant delicacy employed by a luck- 
less Army specialist engaged in disarming a 
time-bomb. 

All too often the darned thing explodes 
in a lurid burst of adjectives — right in our 
seamed and pitted face. We wish those who 
write for us only to do the best they possibly 
can, leaving the slanting up to us. 

ONE BIG SITTING 

by Al Cillboord 

Dear Ekiitor; It has been quite some time now 


VIBRATES 155 

since I last penned a letter to STARTLING STORIES. 
Years, in fact. Then what, you wonder, is remedying 
this deplorable situation. And, quick as a flash, I 
reply, "The September issue and Fredric Brown’s 
WHAT MAD UNIVERSE.” 

Boss-man, this novel I read at one sitting, which is 
something else I have not done in years. Brown has 
a mighty fine style of writing — smooth, easy — so that 
one is hardly aware of actually; reading. I liked the 
hero being a science-fiction editor. It struck me as 
original, since I can’t off-hand recall ever having read 
any other stf yam with that idea. More from Mr. 
Brown, please. 

As for the interior illustrations, I have no com- 
plaints about those for the lead novel. My favorite 
is the one on page nineteen. I can’t comment on the 
remaining stories and for an excellent reason. I 
haven’t yet read ’em. 

One thing more — many thanks for the too-short 
article by R. L. Farnsworth. Like the fading song 
it was "good, good, good.” — Toronto, Ontario. 

Thanks for getting up sufficient interest 
and energy to write us, Al. And please don’t 
wait quite so long before an encore. 

FANUNIVERSE 

by Arthur H. Rapp 

Dear Editor: Ah been gettin' lazy of late; effen 
twam’t fer Roscoe, muh pet beaver, ah'd never get 
a letter writ to yo-all atall. 

Now that I’m at it, I might as well tell you I en- 
joyed WHAT MAD UNIVERSE more than any tale 
in any stfzine for years. The main appeal of Brown’s 
story was its unpredictability — who ever heard of 
a lead novel of interstellar war where the heroine 
wasn’t kidnaped by the alien race? 

There was only one flaw in Fredric Brown’s basic 
concept — and that Is his assumption that in a stfan’s 
ideal universe the fan would be the world-ruling 
genius. Among non-fan readers of stf, yes. But Editor, 
after all these years you should realize that in a 
stSan’s ideal universe, the principal change would be 
that everyone would regard stf as the highest type 
of literature, -that all mags, pxilps, slick and otherwise, 
would be full o£ it! Ah, well, we can’t blame Brown. 
Anyone would get confused, trying to depict an 
autiior’s conception of an editor's conception of a 
fan’s conception of an ideal imiverse. 

As for the rest of the mag, RAT RACE was either 
too subtle for me, or else I’m justified in feeling that 
nothing in the story gave a hint of the non-camiv- 
orousness of the Cafis, until the climax. This left 
a feeling similar to that of a detective story where 
the solution depends on clues which are kept from 
the reader. 

Stf has changed too much since TETRAHEDRA OF 
SPACE was written. The style was stiff, the char- 
acters mechanical and, personally, I didn’t care a 
great deal whether the crystal-creatures were defeated 
or not. 

SHENADUN was well-characterized and smoothly- 
written. It’s a-’ pity the giants-in-the-earth theme has 
been given, distracting connotations in stf. 

SANATORIS SHORT CUT was amusing in a corny 
sort of way. It*seems to me, though, that, given the 
factors of curved space and faster-than-light speed, 
Acco May could have circumnavigated the Universe 
after he learned of Magnus Ridolph’s scheme. By 
the theory of relativity, such a voyage would give the 
same effect as the oft-dlsc\issed time machine, and 
thus May could take measures to forestall his enemy.— 
2120 Bay Street, Saginaw, Michigan. 

Your fan’s dream world is oddly reminis- 
cent of Burl Ives’ “Rock Candy Mountain.” 
Pardon a personal question but does your 
beaver have or is he — a beard? 

HAIR-AND-TAFFY PULL 

by Benjamin Birnbaum 

Dear Ed; I have a reasonable idea to propose. Most 
Stf fans are looking forward to the advent of space 
travel, correct? Ergo, they have kept abreast of the 


156 STARTLING STORIES 


current developments in this phase of research, and 
presumably know what they are talking about. Of 
course, since these aforesaid developments are com- 
mon knowledge, they can afford a very good thought 
basis for ideas and discussion. 

This, therefore, is what I propose — to have a come- 
one-come-all forum in this column, upon the develop- 
ments and possibilities of space travel, with anyone 
at liberty to contribute his treasured ideas, to be 
hashed over and tom apart by the other corres- 
pondents to this august mag. After all, scientists are 
not the only ones that get ideas! Such often-argued- 
but-never-settled topics as space warfare, space pirates 
(perish the thought), etc., could be settled once and 
for all. 

Life on other planets, although we don't know a 
damn (oops — darn) thing about it and probably 
won't until space travel actually is developed, can 
also be rehashed. And this would also serve 
an academic purpose, for it would bring less informed 
readers up to date about Just what’s going on in the 
wide, wide world of space travel. (Aside to the editor; 
It might also bring a good many more readers to the 
magazine.) 

For serious fans, the forum would be a good place 
to let off steam and for the less-serious-mind^, it 
would be a heckuva lotta fun. Of course, too much 
wisecracking would ruin it, but there’s plenty of 
room for some wit. There would have to be some, 
for if there weren’t it would be as dry as dust, and 
Just about as worthless. 

However, if some of the too-comy letter-hacks were 
either eliminated or made to put some meat into 
their letters, this column could turn into something 
really worthy. However much the opinions of some 
readers are of value to the editor, and however much 
their evaluations of the stories are worth, the vast 
majority of the readers are not interested in any 
evaluations excepting their own, but merely in the 
other correspondents’ style of writing. 

Let’s leave style to the story-writers — it’s their 
bread and butter — and concentrate on something bet- 
ter. I’m not saying to eliminate evaluation altogether 
from the letters; on the contrary, it’s valuable to the 
editor, for it shows the trend of public, or at least 
readers’, opinion, but the whole column does not have 
to be devoted to it. There’s room for something else! 
I’m not saying that the column should be devoid of 
style; style is the spice of a letter; but it should not 
be overdone. Moderation’s the thing! 

It is not our custom to run letters without 
the address of the sender but since it is prob- 
ably our fault that the accompanying enve- 
lope with return address was lost and Mr. 
Bimbaum’s idea has merit, we’re running 
this one anyway. 

To a certain extent (though not as much 
as we wish) these columns already constitute 
a forum of the nature he proposes. We re- 
member a recent controversy that lasted for 
some issues as to the type of armament effec- 
tive on space-ships. And there is a current 
something stirring about extra-Solar Solar 
systems. There have been, of course, many 
more and they will recur with increasing 
frequency in the future. 

But the idea of cutting down on story com- 
parisons is sound— in fact, we have already 
expressed similar sentiments. Such compari- 
sons, like story criticisms, are worth while 
only if the epistleer has something of perti- 
nence and interest to say. Too few do. They 
merely like or dislike in varying degrees of 
acerbity or praise. 

Anybody got any ideas for a hot breeze- 
session? • 


HOPEFUL PLEA 

by Mrs. Helen Hough 

Dear Editor: As this letter contains a hopeful plea, I 
would greatly appreciate your printing it. Somehow I 
seem to have missed the July issue and I wonder if 
any of you readers happen to have a spare copy I 
could buy. I’ll answer all letters even if I can’t find 
the magazine. 

Your stories give a wonderful lift and a welcome 
relief from the routine of housekeeping. It’s a minor 
tragedy to me to miss even one issue. 

The September stories were grand as usual, especial- 
ly the lead novel. Wouldn’t it be swell if we could fling 
ourselves into an Utopian universe? Hm — let’s see now 
— fur coats, Cadillacs — guess I’d settle for a sensible 
place where the papers print something besides war 
and threats of war. 

If you think a gentleman (?) named Clements 
might object to another feminine reader’s name in 
TEV, just print the first paragraph. I hate to bother 
people who resent me. Some of the ladies seem to 
have answered him quite adequately. — 517 East Main 
Street, Peru, Indiana. 

Clements too is among the missing this 
time. Perhaps the telling off he got put a 
permanent crimp in his misogynism. Or per- 
haps not. 

RUN OF THE MILLER 

by Fred Ross Burgess 

Dear Mr. Startling: Received your latest issue today 
through courtesy of my local newsdealer and my own 
dough. Therefore tonight, or rather at 3:00 in the 
mawning — ^you know; nothing could be finah than to 
be at Carolina in de mawning — I sit here in my office 
and write concerning lo these many wonderful and 
startling things which you have placed before me. 
Gershwin’s American in Paris is a big help, but it is 
wearing to run back and forth, typing two words and 
then changing a record. 

Notcheriy when I bowt the magazfne I looked 
through the Etheral Vibrations to see whether or not 
I had remembered to mail that last letter to you. 
Evidently I didn’t. Tch. But I did happen to glimpse 
Bobson “Wil” Tucker’s messle and laughed. Hah! 

As I usually do, I therefore read the short stories, 
then the novelets, tiien the novel. Here’s my ratings 
on the current crop, based on the Burgess system, an 
amazong and complocated arrangement for determin- 
ing the relative value of the works. Uncannily, it 
happened to agree with my choice. Voici: 


*iace: 

Rating. 

Story: 

Author: 

1. 

0.640 

What Mad Universe 

Brown 

2. 

0.475 

“Sanatoris Short-Cut” 

Vance 

3. 

0.390 

“Rat Race” 

de Courcys 

4. 

0.105 

“Shenadun” 

MacDonald 

5. 

0.060 

“Tetrahedra of Space” 

Miller 


Incidentally, while we’re at it, the perfect story, if 
such could be written, would receive a rating of 
1.000; in the same light, no matter how bad a story is 
— be it merely a collection of letters' in no sequence — 
it cannot receive a rating of less than 0.020. 

As a story, which it wasn’t, but I thought it would be 
fun, Farnsworth’s First Target in Space pulled down a 
measly little 0.247y2» which would seem, as they’ve run 
in the past few issues, to make it a Hall of Fame 
classic in about 1960. 

The drawings, slightly run-of-the-mill, weren’t too 
bad. That isn’t saying much, though. Best thing in — 
or on — the book, was tiie delightful sketch of the 
Lunan on the cover. 

Now a short discussion period. There was no reason 
that the “Burton” effect would have sent Winton back 
to his universe. No reason at all, other than the fact 
that it gave the story a slap-happy ending. That alone 
was responsible for a good 0.050 points on the ratings. 

I particularly enjoyed Jack Vance’s little epic be- 
cause I have a special like for stories concerning the 
games of — hum — chance. The story was a lot too short, 
tho. It would have been much better had it been some- 
thing like 10,000 or 15,000 words. 

The others barely need mentioning. Therefore, ITl 
barely not mention them. 

Letters were decidedly run-of-the-mill. The only 
truly outstanding entry into the field was Tucker's 
missage, as I said earlier. And therefore, having noth- 


THE ETHER VIBRATES 157 


Ing more to say, I refrain from further comment. — 
— c/o Graham Memorial, University of Horth Carolina, 
Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 

The run-of-the-mill to you too, Ross. And 
the Burton effect did not send Winton back 
to his own universe — ^he did a lot better in 
the one he found. 

SNAILBACK DELIVERY 

by K. F. Slater, Esq. 

Dear Editor: Gettouta that chair quick, and get 
crackin'. I have my largest size atom bomb trained on 
Suite 1400. And not only is this an atom bomb, it has 
attachments of my devising, which are even worse! 
As it crosses a coast line on its way inland, it releases 
hordes of BEM. Little purple-eyed, pink-skinned, blue- 
nosed octopoid ones, 3 inches hl^. Not physically 
dangerous, but, brother, thhik oi the psychological 
factor attached to one of those when it comes into view 
just as you raise the glass to put back the ‘one for the 
road’ ! ! The only word which fits is ‘CATASTROPHIC* ! 

You wanna know why? Weil, so I get a pat on the 
head, per Sept 48 issue. But do I get reviewed, do I! 
Wasappened to the March O.F., No. 3? Airmailed to 
you in March . . . cost me a buck. Wasappened to No. 
4, June? Also airmailed . . . 'nother buck.?????? 
And that's not all. Your correspondence must be de- 
livered by tortoise. Joyce and I got married in March 
(24th). And ]^n Holmes knew muyo pronto. But in 
SEPTEMBER (well, I know it's really July) you give 
stale gen. And the address!! Soutfi DRINK! Ghu 
have mercy on the lead weight that passes for your 
soul! Itsa a for Brink. You bad it right in my letters 
before. 

The lead novel has it well and truly. WHAT MAD 
UNIVERSE, indeed. When did you get translated, Mr. 
Editor? And having read that far through the mag., I 
got so upset that I hadda bash off this letter before I 
could get down to reading any more, even tho 
‘HALASUHTEM' Wigodsky and ‘ASTRA’ Zimmer 
glorify the pages of the ETHER VIBRATES. And I 
have therefore postponed the pleasure of reading the 
rag — sorry, mag, until I can cool down enough to ap- 
preciate it. Therefore in a few days, yet another letter 
will be on the way to you. A more pleasant epistle, 
I hope, if the rapid glances I have managed to give to 
other bits of fiie mag convey anything to me. 

Seems that I have concentrated all my venom in a 
half page of this AL, and as it costs a tanner whether 
I send it fully covered with type, or only half covered, 
I might as well fill it up. I appreciate your .sentiments 
about us poor starving (STFarvation) Britons, and to 
help, would you pubhcize that I am willing to swop 
British books for subs to USA mags. ANY B.Books. 
Fantasy, SF, Educational, mystery, detective, psychic 
resear(±i, etc. Any subject. I don’t want subs for my- 
self. I’ve got those taped, but I do need them for other 
UK fen. Hordes of ’em, and there are more being bom 
every minute, if my social reporter advises me cor- 
rectly. 

Next O.F. ‘General Chuntering’ is gonna read like the 
B.,M,&D. column of a newspaper, I fear. As to what I 
can offer, latest include a reprint of Wheatley’s famous 
‘THEY FOUND ATLANTIS,’ and new books include 
Farjeon’s ‘DEATH OF A WORLD’ which starts off 
with interplanetary adventurers who stumble on Earth 
just after World War III, and try to save some 
remnant of humanity; then two on the atomic power- 
mad scientist theme, Eden Phillpots’ ‘FALL OF THE 
HOUSE OF HERON,’ and Laurence Kirk’s ‘THE GALE 
OF THE WORLD’; another interplanetary Pelham 
Groom’s PURPLE TWILIGHT. Average price for these 
Will be about $2.10, including postage. Anyone who 
wants to get these— or any others — ^is invited to write 
to me, or to Joe Baker, 1438 Addison Street, Chicago 
15, or John Koestner, 2124 Rene Ct., Brooklyn 27. 

And since I wrote the above I’ve taken a look thru 
S.S., and I found yet another error. Nothing to do 
with me, but, dear Ed, you are leading young girls 
astray. Marion Miller, to be exact. Of course there is a 
sequel to (he MOON POOL. Merritt also wrote ‘CON- 
QUEST OF THE MOON POOL.’ and any fan-dealer 
can probably advise you where to get a copy, — 
13 Gp. R.P.C., BA.O.R. 5, c/o G.P.O. England, or 
Riverside, South Brink, Wisbech, Cambs, England. 

Whew! You really teed off on that one, 


Kenneth, Esq. Or on us. What’s this O.F. 
anyway? Who’s Joyce (congratulations)? 
What’s a B, M & D column? We remain en- 
thralled, puzzled and pot«itially atomized. 

Seriously, Ken, we’ll do our best to correct 
such omissions in the future. As to the 
Moon Pool sequel, we really took it, as the 
last (November) issue will reveal. One more 
like the above and we’ll pat your head with 
a baseball — ^pardon — a cricket bat. Though a 
Number One wood has its uses too. Flatter 
trajectory and all that. 

CLMDUFS 

by T. E. Watkins 

Dear Editor: A great big bouquet of roses to Frcdrio 
Brown for "What Mad Universe” in the Sept. ish. of 
Sb. It is the oesb wisn story of the year! I wish it 
were true- Say, maybe it is true, who am I to doubt? 
At any rate, it is a regular oan't-lay-magazine-down- 
until-finlshed-special. a CLMDUFS. 

And since this is the best wish story of the year, 
why not wish. I’m coming in for a crack-up with the 
ship from Arcturus and I’m thinking about tbe proba- 
bility universe that I want to land in. A blinding flash 
and “Watkins Special Heaven” opens up before me. 

Meat would be 10c a pound. There would be plenty 
of meat. SS would he a weekly. There would be 
plenty of houses. TWS woulh be a weekly. There 
would be plenty of robots to do all the work. SS and 
TWS would be loaded with CLMDUFS. All the women 
would look like Einley’s babes. Boy, would I fix 
things up. Anyone who doesn't like it can wish for. 
his own universe. 

Next best story was "Sanatoris Short-Cut” by Ja^ 
Vance. Smooth writing and an interesting character 
in Magnus Hidolph. Best thing in the story was that 
^per pinball game, or shoulij I say, waterball game. 
Glad we don’t have any of those around — I wouldn’t 
have a buck. I’m an old pinball champ. Record is 34 
free games built up with NO MOVIN’, fellows! I am 
strictly a free roll man. Would have preferred Ridolph 
busting Aceo May's alibi, rather than using that navi- 
gation trick to catch him. 

You say, but that was the point of the story, that 
was the S.F. That may be, but with all the space 
travel in evidence in the story (they seemed to be a 
long way from the solar system) it seems far fetched 
that no one had figured out the fastest method of 
navigation. 

Next best was “Tetrahedra of Space," by P. Schuyler 
Miller. Here we have a real old-fashioned "menace” 
story with all the angles. I love ’eml 
CONTENTS 

1. A National Geographic magazine for background. 

2. A hero. He must be brave. 

3. A scientist, any old kind, to make with the stf shop 
jargon. 

4. A menace, something evil, but not too hideous. We 
don't want to scare the kids. 

5. A sheep. Someone to get bumped off to show how 
tou^ the menace is. 

G. A gimmick. Something to get rid of the menace. 

LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION, and we do mean 
action! Hero, scientist and slieep run across a menace 
in some faraway locality. Menace looks unstoppable. 
Scientist bides time. Sheep gets excited and runs or 
attacks menace barehanded or, better yet, sells out 
hero an(} scientist and gets himself bumped. Anyway, 
he gets his. Earth doomed I Hero takes over. Gets s§lf 
in an impossible jam. Things look black. Scientist 
sees flaw in menace! Mutters shop jargon. Hero 
catches on — moves in — menace folds. Whew! I love 
’em. This story was a CLMDUFS! 

“Bat Race” by D. and J. de Courcy had the best 
gimmick of the year. Not as well written as some of 
the others, but the gimmick was tops, a beat-up old 

g lece of meat And the menace was one of the best. 

lon’t let anyone say that the idea isn’t logical. The 
Indian Nabobs of the last centup^ created great armies 
complete with elephants that they moved about In a 
vast che.ss game. When a prince got himself sur- 
rounded, he quit No one got hurt. Clive, the Enelish- 


158 STARTLING STORIES 


man, came in with a handfxil of men who were willing 
to shoot and they took the whole shebang, elephants 
and alll 

“Shenadun” by John D. MacDonald was better when 
the hero was going up the mountain than when he was 
coming down. Giants did not have enough menace for 
me. Finlay’s giant babe was nice. Story was well 
written. 

“The First Target in Space” by Farnsworth was full 
of information about the moon that I didn’t know. 
The lights in the craters and the appearance and dis- 
appearance of structures on the surface of the moon 
suggest that Joe Donpelberg’s purple BEMS do exist. 
And who is Joe D.? See “What Mad Uni\’erse.” 
Joe’s moon had air on it as well as purple BEMS. 

Best story in either mag. SS or TWS, from Jan to 
Sept was “The Earth Men,” by Ray Bradbury in 
August TWS. Next best so far was “What Mad Uni- 
verse.” Next best was “The House of Rising Winds’* 
by Frank Belknap Long. Treatment alone gets “Winds" 
ite top spot, but the idea of a hunter looking over the 
human race for zoo specimens is tops. I know a couple 
of guys I’d like to sell out. The hunter would have 
some nice vicious specimens for himself too. 

Worst story of the year — I don’t pick worst stories. 
I only pick best stories. Will send ten-best list at Ihe 
end of the year. Boys will have to go some to top Hrree 
I have already picked. Thanks. — 1605 Wood Ave., 
Kansas City, Kansas. 

Nice going, T. E. No particular comment 
for us. But if the sheep in your formula 
doesn’t get nicely toasted, where do the lamb 
chops come from? We ought to send you a 
pinball machine that always comes within 
one small fraction of paying off. It should 
keep you occupied for a decade or six. 

HIPPY 

by Tom Jewett 

Editor: Hip, hip, hooray, tor What Mad Universe! 
Hip, hip, hooray, for Sredric Brown and Startling 
Stories! And a special hip-hip to Sergey’s femme on 
ihe cover of the September issue. Lovely, lovely! 
And even the BEM was better than usual. 'Three and- 
a-half cheers, too, for the expanding of SS and its 
sister stfantasy publication, ThriUing Wonder Stories. 

Fredrlc Brown’s What Mad Universe was one of the 
best SS novels I've ever had the pleasure of reading. 
It was so far above Hamilton’s novel in the July num- 
ber that the difference is really appalling. Yes it is. 
Hamilton seems to try to set the scene complete in die 
very first paragraph of any diaptei;, and in prose that 
makes even me blink my eyes in disbelief. But Mister 
Brown does it smoothly, as it should be done. Shouldn’t 
it? 

The plot also was good. Seems to me it wasn’t brand- 
new, but I’m really glad it didn’t all turn out to be a 
dream, as the very first illustration suggested. 
Stevens’ pics were wonderful. He doesn’t equal good 
old Virgil Finlay, unfortimately, but the page eleven 
and page nineteen illustrations are the best. Especially 
the page eleven. . . . 

Of the short stories MacDonald's Shenadun took top 
honors and that Finlay pic was wonderful! That guy 
can really drawl 

Jack Vance’s character, Magnus Ridolph, seems to be 
shaping up pretty well, but dragging in that Mercator 
projection error was corny. After all. if M’s as in- 
accurate as all that it wouldn’t be used in space navi- 
gation where the gravitie fields of the planets play not 
a small part In planet-hopping. I must say, though, 
that Miste Vance did a wonderful Job of padding that 
gimmick into a good short story. 

The de Courcy story was poor. I’ve seen similar 
themes done much better by others. 

You may himch up your stooped little shoulders now 
for I’m going to talk about Startling^s pet flop, the Hall 
of Fame deoartment. Mister Editor, you don’t seem 
to realize that we readers aren’t Interested In the 
stories of ten-twenty-thirty years ago. We want mod- 
em authors who are at the peak of their writing career 
now. I don't have to list the best stfantasy authors 
who appear in Startling and TWS because you, I and 
everyone else knows them. And because we know 
them we want to read stories by them, 


Henry Kuttner at his best is unequaled by any author 
of one-two-three decades ago and I’d match many of 
today’s well-known stfantasy authors against the 
hacksters of years ago. I shudder at your statement 
that because of more space to be available you plan to 
run longer Hall of Fame stories. I don’t want to read 
stories by authors of eras gone by, I want to read 
stories by authors that I like and whose style is fa- 
miliar to me and who entertain me with good stories 
that please me. 

I’ll eradicate the guy that says P. Schuyler Miller 
writes better than Ray Bradbury. And I’ll decimate 
the moron who claims Merritt outwrites Jack William- 
son. The stfantasy writers of today have the styles of 
writing that we the readers like to read. If they 
didn’t they wouldn’t have readers. 

Styles of writing have undergone changes, that 
you’ll have to admit. Subtle changes, yes, that I can't 
possibly put my finger on. But the changes are there 
and we’re sen.sitlve to them, even if we can’t define 
them. In the final analysis It comes down to this': we 
want to read modem stories with modem styles and 
techniques, not introvertive essays with the Gothic 
style. In ten years the whole technique of stfantasy 
writing may change as readme tastes ebb and flow. 
But until then, let’s have a truly modern Startling 
Stories with no reversion to the so-called "classics”. 

How about it? — 670 George Street, Clyde, Ohio. 

It seems to us that one of the chief virtues 
of the HoF is that it enables such discerning 
readers as yourself, Mr. Jewett, to study the 
advance of stf over recent ywirs. That such 
an advance has occurred we would be the 
last to deny. 

So don’t blow a gasket if we continue to 
publish such stories as we feel contain some 
modicum of modern reader interest or reveal, 
by compariscHi with today’s stories, some 
stage of the progress of stf. Publishing such 
stories should incite more interest than an- 
noyance from true afficionadoes. 

CONJUGAL BLISS 

by Ruth Herman 

Dear Sir: My husband and 1 aue avid readers of 
your magazine, but are not subscribers. We buy SS 
from our local newsstand. I have seen your reprints 
of fantastic stories of long ago and without a doubt I 
would like to see a reprint (it may have to be in serial 
form as it is quite tong) of a book called “Darkness 
and Dawn” by Edward Allan England. 

My brother has a print of this book and should you 
not be able to locate a copy I’m sure that he would 
oblige in lending you Ws copy. — 1495 Popham Avenue, 
The Bronx 55, New York. 

Thanks, Mrs. Herman, for your very kind 
offer Unfortunately the length of Mr. Eng- 
land’s excellent novel is a decisive factor 
against its republication in our pages. Serials 
are definitely not included in our current 
policy. Sorry. 

PICK UP STYX 

by Clifford Dye 

Dear Editor: So you’ve read John Kendrick Bangs' 
A HOUSEBOAT ON THE STYX. Well, well! ’Tis one 
of the too-few humorous fantasies that I really love. 1 
seem to be the only one around here who has read It, 
and it’s awful not to be able to discuss a good story 
with someone who has read it. 

Remember the after-dinner discussion in which 
B^n Munchausen tells of killing the row of ducks 
with a pearl and George Washington Is asked his 
opinion of the trath of the statement and he says, 
"Gentlemen, I cannot tell a Ue, even wh«i I hear it." 


THE ETHER VIBRATES 159 


And then there’s the discvission between Dr. Stanley 
and the Baron as to whether or not Man had a tail 
before the Deluge. They left to find Adam and ask 
him. 

About the controversy concerning the definition of 
STF — I have my own definition of science-fiction but 
the funny part is that it doesn’t always hold true 
(I guess it isn’t so strange, at that). For instance, ac- 
cording to my own definition, VALLEY OF CREA- 
TION Is SF, but I regard it as fantasy just the same. 
In other words, I don’t have a definition of SF. 

What happened to Lewis Sherlock? 

I refer Marion Zimmer to THE LAST MAN by Wal- 
lace West. 

My friend, the Mad Scientist, has been fooling 
around with invisibility. Skipping such things as Jack 
London's complete transparency and absolute black, 
he tried bending light rays. Well, he succeeded — but 
not completely. You see, the bent rays impinging 
upon the unaffected rays caused a glowing halo about 
him. And that’s not all. Since all light rays were bent 
past him, no light reached his eyes and he was totally 
blinded. Ah well, my friend is now experimenting 
with ingravity. 

Rather liked WHAT MAD UNIVERSE though I ex- 
pected it to be funnier. TETRAHEDRA OF SPACE 
was also good. 

Thumbs down on St, Clair. I care nothing whatever 
about the little details of home life of the future. 
The demon said, “We won’t be apart long, 

Don’t you know, 

There’s a spot reserved for you 
Down below” 

Speak not to me of scanion for snelling Sneary 
has nothing on me), — Box 2382, Williamson, W. Va. 

Mr. Bangs’ hilarious epic is listed among 
our happier recollections— but we will thank 
you, Mr. Dye, not to make reservations for 
us in you-know-where. We consider our- 
selves quite capable of managing without 
help from others — in that direction at any 
rate. Who in hades is or was Sherlock? 

TOP 0' THE HEAP TO US 

by Ihomas Henry Carter 

Dear Sir: As you know, it’s not very often that I 
write to magazines, but the quality of your readers’ 
column is of such a high level that I feel practically 
inspired. 

Your mention of Bangs' HOUSEBOAT ON THE 
STYX brings back fond memories of the book. I still 
think the debate over who wrote Shakespeare’s plays 
is one of the funniest things I ever read. 

As to who plays the sweetest tnompet, I’d pick Billy 
Butterfield as all-time tops. That, incidentally, recalls 
a rather unhappy incident. One day a few months 
ago. while Butterfield was in town playing at our local 
night spot, I proceeded to tell the guy who runs a 
music store here, just how bad Butterfield is, just for 
the fun of arguing. In the midst of my detailed 
criticism, I glanced behind me. The gentleman breath- 
ing so quietly down my neck was Butterfield, himself! 
Fim, hrih? 

There is no point in saying how much your two 
magazines have improved; everybody knows it. It 
might be a good idea, however, to have Kuttner exer- 
cise his versatility of style and story-type, instead 
of limiting himself to this superfantasy, good though 
it is; you can get tired of ice cream. 

The fanzine review remains an excellent feature, and 
your criticism is generally fair and accurate. Writing 
it, I should imagine, poses a nice problem. Although 
fanzine stuff seems to be for the past several montos 
at a very high level, much remains pretty sad; but 
producing a fanzine still requires much blood- 
sweating. How then can you criticize when necessary, 
but still remember the difficulties that spawned the 
*zine in question? Considering all that, I think you 
do a darn good job. Keep it up. 

In closing, I wish you all the luck necessary to keep 
TWS and STAR'TLING on top of the heap. — 8i7 
Starling Avenue, Martinwille, Virginia. 

Youi- incident with le Butterfield is rem- 


iniscent in reverse of Hearst-columnist Bill 
Corum’s Lou Boudreau disaster. Corum, 
while broadcasting an All-star game a couple 
of seasons ago, had occasion to mention the 
shortstop play of Marty Marion. He went into 
rhapsodies about the Cardinal infield genius, 
comparing his play to all the other great 
shortstops he could recall — including Wag- 
ner, Dave Bancroft, Art Fletcher, Travis 
Jackson, Eddie Miller and so on. 

His speech completed, he stepped back 
from the mike, mopping the Corum brow, 
and literally bumped into Boudreau, greatest 
of all current short fielders, who was side- 
lined with a bum ankle. 

Corum apologized profusely for forgetting 
him while the commercials popped around 
them. Boudreau treated the whole thing as a 
joke. 

But when the game was over and Corum 
was esconced in a taxicab en route to hi» 
hotel, a handsome young man in a handsome 
convertible, pulled up alongside during a red 
light wait and braked his car while carefully 
keeping both his hands away from the steer- 
ing wheel. 

“Look,” he said to Corum. “No hands.” 

“What’s the idea, Lou?” Corum wanted to 
know. “Are you trying to get yourself 
kiUed?” 

“No,” said Boudreau, “but I had to do 
something so you’d remember me.” 

WHO OR WHOM? 

by Roberta Hesse 

Bear Ed: The article looked pretty good to me. I 
don’t know enough about the moon to comment so I’ll 
let the rest of the readers who don’t know anything 
about it tear the article apart. With a pitying glance 
at the cover we will turn to the stories. 

WHAT MAD UNIVERSE . . . Quite entertaining. At 
least it gave this reader a laugh. Those none loo 
subtle hints w.ere rather like biting the hands of the 
dogs that feed you, but I bet every reader got a big 
laugh out of iJoppelberg. He was so typical, and who 
can the fans laugh at-more than themselves? 

TETRAHEDRA OF SPACE . . . For once there is a 
good Hall of Fame opus. It was well written and, 
wonder of wonders, the alien race wasn’t anniMlated. 
May have been a little water logged, but everything 
came out alright. 

SHORT CUT was a little cheesy. This Ridolph char- 
acter is a little worse for wear. How about giving us 
a character who isn’t the perfect model? Someone 
who blunders, or maybe even lies and steals. Hey, 
why not give us a story about U1 Quom? 

SHENADUN ... a bit unbelievable. After long asso- 
ciation with the human race, I find it hard to believe 
that any race could visit a weaker planet without con- 
quest. Also, it is maddening to read, even in fiction, of 
someone getting the chance to do a thing you have al- 
ways dreamed of doing. — 3208 25th Street SE, Canton, 
Ohio. 

You must have been out with some re- 
markably unpleasant lads, Roberta, to get 
such an opinion of genus homo. Whom could 
they have been? 


160 STARTLING STORIES 


ERRATUM-TUM 

by C. S. Metchette 

Editor, SS: Sir, you have made a mistake! I'm will- 
ing to donate the first copy of the Necronomicon if 
any fan, author, or artist can bring to light the Book 
Review of Merritt’s and Bok’s ‘Black Wheel’ in the 
September issue of Startling. 

The Ugly Trio has now been replaced by the Terrible 
Twins, huh? The cover possibly symbolic, but more 
likely sexy, shows SS’s new system. No more scantily 
clad heroin, protected by Jolm Carter of Mars, flee- 
ing from the frightful BEM. No! Now it is the afore- 
said scantily clad damsel fleeing across the intergalactic 
void, somehow without benefit of space suit or other 
unnecessary paraphernalia, from the sensually out- 
stretched arms of a Bug Eyed Monster, also without 
benefit of respirator or oxygen apparatus. 

Tell me, editor, how can wind be blowing the gurTs 
locks out in galactic ^ace? Is the BEM breathing in, 
or is the fan in the office of SS's letter-editor blowing 
out an open window? Bergey never drew a nicely 
curved maiden, his damsels are old hags. 

And why not Finlay on the cover? Once a year 
would be enough; enough, that is. the date that you 
come out annually. (I guess that takes care of that.) 

At last, a science-fiction writer has written a yarn 
about a world as dreamed of by a stfan. And what 
starving, penny-a-word-pen-pusher hasn’t? Oh, editor, 
shoot Mr. Brown . . . and to think he wrote ‘The 
Waveries’ . . . what a sad fate. 

One vote for the discontinuance of HOFame; unless, 
and I suggest, that you run some Pete Manx tales. I'd 
like to see ‘Dames is Poison.’ ‘DeWolfe of Wall Street’ 
and 'Man About Time.’ When I think of such 
HOFamers as “Conquest of 2 Worlds’ and ‘Disc Men 
of Jupiter’ that have deserved the right to be re- 
printed, no more worse tales could be found, how can 
you continue to dub these in on the unsuspecting new 
reader? Bring back Sgt. Saturn ere you dare think of 
continuing HOFame. Or if you want a unanimous nay 
vote, why not run some old Cummings’ ‘Tubby’ hor- 
rors? I leave the subject with that suggestion. 

“Rat Race’’ was fair, but not as good as the tale by 
Geosmith under the same title. “Shenadun,” return of 
MacDonald from detective yams, was extra good. Is 
there really a Shenadun, companion to Everest? The 
Rldolph series runs its merry way with “Short 
Cut’’; I laughed when he broke the bank, but didn’t 
even see the light about the Mercator projection until 
some considerable thought took place. 

The increase bodes ill for your competitors, editor, 
for how can they offer a prozine containing 8 stories 
under all of Kuttner’s alter-egos? That would be a 
memorable issue: 

1. novel by Kuttner, (Henry) 

2. a. a novelet by Padgett. (Lewis) 

3. a. short by Hastings, (Hudson) 

b. short by Eclmonds. (Paul) 

c. short by Cartmill, (Cleve) 

4. article, by Will Garth, on ‘Pseudonyms in Stfantasy’. 

5. Part I of a serial by O’Donnell. (Lawrence) 

All artwork by Charles Stoddard; proofreading done 
by Kelvin Kent, and model for the Terrible Twins 
cover, C. L. Moore. The pic-cover can be done by 
Hugo Gernsback. sensational new artist in the fantasy 
field! 

As for the future, continue to run van Vogt, Hub- 
bard, Kuttner (any of him), Leinster or Vance and I 
shall be on hand in front of the little cigar-store on 
the comer with my 25 silver pennies. — 3551 King 
Street, Windsor, Ontario. 

So you don’t like the cover — so what, bub? 
And why you people expect a cover to be a 
literal illustration of an inside story is beyond 
us. Furthermore, the next time you spell 
heroine, put on the final “e” — our cover girls 
may be hags but they’re not dopes. And for 
your private files, Cleve Cartmill is not 
Henry Kuttner. Nor are Moore, Stoddard 
and Gernsback! 

I, PRODIGY 

by Michael Wigodsky 

Dear Sir: I just got a letter from Joseph B. Baker, 


in which he wonders how I could have read “such 
luminaries as Shwa, Kipling,’’ and have read stf since 
1940, when I must have been (and was) 5 years old. 
'The answer is simple, and I intend to explain when I 
write to Mr. Baker, but, because of the remote possi- 
bility that some other fans may have wondered about 
this, I will, at the risk of seeming redundant (Seem- 
ing, huh?), include it here. 

1 read both the passage I quoted from Kipling and 
that I mentioned by Shaw about a year ago, and as 
both of them stayed in my mind, I was able to quote 
them with what I believe is reasonable accuracy. As 
for the 1940 issue of TWS I mentioned, I bought that 
about a year ago as a back-number-magazine. Does 
that satisfy everyone I didn*t get letters from about it? 

Earl Dodge informs me that my name was brought 
forward at the Torcon, as the youngest fan, but mis 
was proved to be wrong. If I am not the youngest fan, 
then, by the Leonore Overture 3, who is, or who are, 
the youngest? 

One comment on my letter in this issue, before 
going on to the usual insults: I am sorry about that 
“good stories, I will miss you’’ crack, and hope that all 
fans will discount it when they see my comments on 
the July issue. Still, as you know. I have a great dis- 
like for Edmond Hamilton, who has, in the Startling 
lead novels of his I have read, plagiarized from Olaf 
Stapledon, E. E. Smith. Edgar Rice Burroughs, Eric 
Frank Russell, every one of the “hollow world’’ fantasy 
writers, Edgar Allen Poe, Stanley G. Weinbaum, 
George O. Smith, Murray Leinster, John Taine, and 
Jonathan Swift, as well as other notables such as 
Samuel Butler, Robert Heinlein, Jack Williamson, 
Mark Twain, etc. etc. etc. He’s the plagiarizingest 
man! 

First of the stories, of course, is WHAT MAD UNI- 
VERSE, with a plot which is Infinite, to say the least. 
It is so infinite, in fact, that Mekky’s explanation quite 
thoroughly does away with any complaints I might 
have about the minor improbabilities which mar all 
but the last two chapters. I regret, however, that you 
partially gave the plot away with your mention of 
Doppelberg in OUR NEXT ISSUE, so that, with those 
few words, the value of the surprise ending was total- 
ly destroyed. Almost totally, anyway. I didn’t antici- 
pate Mekky. 

Next in order were TETRAHEDRA OF SPACE and 
a tie between RAT RACE, whose title was, unfor- 
tunately, the same as that of a much superior story 
by George O. Smith, which appeared in another maga- 
zine, and SANATORIS SHOR'TCUT (This seems to be 
developing into a very superior series, which will 
probably be issued as a book sometime, if it goes on 
long enough. If it goes on longer than long enough, it 
will be a couple of books. I hope not.) 

I haven’t commented mudi on the above, as they 
are all fair stories, but I am really angry about 
SHENADUN. This story doesn’t belong in the maga- 
zine! It should have been sent to one of your com- 
petitors, I mean one of the ones who canH compete 
with you. The first seven pages, to page 109, are ex- 
cellent. I will only comment on a few of the less ob- 
vious faults of this story. 

First, there is the idea of parallel evolution. 

To have produced the giants of the sto^, there 
would have to be a planet equal to the Earth, identical, 
in fact, in all things except size, and we would have 
to assume that the inhabitants developed from the 
same basic materials as we, which, even with identical 
conditions, is doubtful. I would not object so, if this 
were a minor part of the story. 

However, to have a story based upon this theory, a 
story which is sheer rubbish if the reader does not 
heartily believe in this theory, taxes my credulity too 
much. You should excuse the expression, but J. D. 
MacDonald has turned out a piece of absolute trash, 
which is not only completely unbelievable, even by an 
habitual reader of fantasy, but violates every principle 
of literary composition. In short, how did it get into 
your magazine? 

(When I say “literary composition,’’ I do not mean 
“literatoor,” but the technique of any kind of writing. 
This is one of the few stories you have publishM 
which is not even readable garbage.) 

After the above lambasting, I find myself without 
a large enough supply of usable insults to cope with 
the article or the departments. I’ll only compliment 
you for not cutting out my pome because it included 
the first and last letters of your name, with a dash be- 
tween. I wonder why you couldn’t have made the 
same change in my comments on one of your stories, 
in TWS awhile back? Tell me, huh? 

Just one more question: Why don’t you get John 
Taine, the Great, to do an original novel for yoa 


THE ETHER VIBRATES 161 


whatever the cost, instead of publishing Hamilton's 
weak imitations? I"U bet on John Taine to out-write 
any scienceiictioneer alive today, including Kuttner. 
I wonder how he would have done against weinbaum, 
giving each the same subject? 

I said that that would be the last question, but 
here’s another anyway: Why don’t you public a 
round-robin story, by at least four writers, again 
some time? — 7744 Ridgeland Avenue, Chicago 49, 
lUinois. 

Oh, shwa, Michael. We liked Shenadun and 
still do. As for John Taine, we only wish he 
would write us a full lengther. Your beef on 
Ed Hamilton is invalid. Better look up pla- 
giarism a bit more closely before you throw 
that odious label around further. 

Why drag back the round-robin idea? It 
has been frequently tried and as frequently 
found wanting. Hugh Walpole iind J. B. 
Priestley probably perpetrated the worst of 
such stories some two decades ago. Merci- 
fully we do not remember its title. But it was 
a lulu — we don’t think. Again — shwa. 

BUDOFF SMILES 

by Lee Budoff 

Dear Sir: The following manuscript came into (»ir 
hands when we received from the descendants at 
Jonathan Swift a metal strongbox, which had beer 
handed down by Mr. Swift to his desceiuiants with 
the Instructions that it was to be opened in the year 
1348 A. D. in the U. S. A. How he knew that such a 
country would exist is a mystery that will perhaps be 
explained by the following pages. Although we turned 
over everything else to the British Museum, we kept 
this story. We are certain that you will marvel as we 
have at the accuracy of the author’s knowledge of die 
twentieth century. I believe that you, and most 
especially your readers will find it of vital interest 
since it most closely concerns you. and of course, you 
are the ones most informed as to the actuality of such 
persons as Messrs. Wilson Tucker. Hoy Ping Pong. 
Jack Clements, and Miss Eunice Schaver. Above alb 
is, or was, there ever such a person as Lee Budoff? 

Sincerely, 

The Society for Historical Research 

Joseph Doppelberg, See’y. 

CONCSBHYNG A KARVhUOUS T¥l(E-IItAVSU.VHa UEVYSS 

I herein desyre to first congratulate Wilson Tucker, 
for Whom I bayre no Malice, for having Successfuille 
Built & Employd a Pracktycall 'Pyme Traveller, b 
beeing of a Mathematycal turn of Mynd, did Deduce & 
Pruve to my Satysfaction this Astonyshing fackt 
Blrsb havyng established the Fackt that the Magazyne 
in Question, yclept Startlyng Storys, was first Intro- 
duced Unto the Reeding Publick in the Year of Our 
Lord 1939, it was an easle Matter to Establish the year 
1962 as tha Fyrst year that a person coud have Beene 
reedying the Magazyne for Twenty-three years. Synce 
the year that Mr. Tucker's lettre is Printed is 1948 
anno domini, there are onlie Two possyble Conclu- 
sions to be Gdttyn. Naymly.: 1. That the aforesaid 
Gentlemann has seen a copy of a magazyne durying 
or after the Year 1962 bye the Meanes of Travellying 
into Tyme, or 2. Either said Magazyne or Mr. Tucker’s 
letter Slypped out of its appointed Roundes and 
appyred at the wrong Tyme. 

Now, although the Lattre Possibility Is Entyrely 
posiball, forthcoming Events proved the Actualihe of 
the former Premyse. I shall herein Relate to you the 
verry remarkabal Hystorie of the Joumie that Mye 
Curiositle led me into. 

Three Days before I began mye adventures, I pur- 
chased a copie of the Septembre, 1948 ishue of 
Startlyng Storys, I caym across M. Tucker’s re- 
markabal lettre and It Gratelie ecksited mye Curiositle. 
I determined to track down the Mysterie to its 
Source. Now, bye gude Luck, I was ackwaynted wyth 
the most Excellente Mr. Hoy Ping Pong, a Chinyse 


Gentlemann k schrfiar, and the Most Intymate Friend 
of Mr. Tucker. I knew that if Anyorte could lighten 
the Mysterie, hee was the One. 

Hee Recleved me Kindlie, & in anser to mye En- 
treaties, hee finallie disclosed the Fackt that Mr. 
Tucker had Indeed invented a Meanes of Travelling 
in 'Tyme. Hee had enteixed the yeare 1963, anno 
domini, and altho not Possessed of the Currencie used 
at the tyme, he bad obtained a Copie of Startlyng 
Storys by tradyng off an Ancient Fowntain Frame. 

Beeing a Gentlemaim of a srarse at Humour, Hee 
decided to Write a Lettre to the Edytor of the 
Magazyne, commenting in a Scholarlle fariuon upon 
the Contents. Gyving as hys authcwity twenty-three 
years of Reedershipe. HowEver, when hee finysbed 
hys Lettre, hee was rudelie Interrupted bye the 
Inhabytantes who desyred to see hys Identyflcation. 
Sayd Inhabytantes beeing of the ^aynte Habyt at 
focarceratyirg all unidentyfled Persons. 

Beeing verie prudente, Mr. Tucker pr«Mnptlie re- 
turned to the Tyme wherein hee belonged. The Lettre 
hee had writ styl in hys Cote Pockyb Although hee 
forgot about It, hys trend Pong, who hapratd to bee 
vlsytlng hym, notyced the unmaled lettre, & beeing of 
a kyndlie Disposition, Stamppd k Mayled it When 
Mr. Tucker finalis Recalld hys Lettre, hee was In- 
formd bye hys Chinyse frend of hys action, and 
thought it a gude joke. 

Juste as Mr. Pong finyshd tellyng mee of these 
wondrous Eventes, Mr, Tucker stept from briilnd a 
Sylk pannel where hee had beyn all the Tyme. Saifir 
hee. Quote: 1 trust ye hav founde my trend’s Nara- 
tive interestsmg, butte unfortunatelie for ye I wysh 
to Keepe my Invention a Secrete for mye own Per- 
sonyl Use. k therefore I regret fliat I ahal hav to dis- 
pose of bothe ye k Mr. Pong, much as I dislike the 
Action. — Unquote. 

I did not Relysh beeing shotte wyth the Wicked- 
lookyng weaponn hee was brandyriiyng, beeing, as Mr. 
jack Clemente wude say, a mere wranmen k eowarde, 
so I did not resyste. When we arrived at Mr. Tucker’s 
Howse, It soon became moste Svydent that we were 
to bee disposd of in the most Foolprufe way posibal: 
we were to bee flimg into Tyme without the Meanes 
of Retumyng. Unfortuneatelfe, Mr. Tucker hadde not 
yet devysed a means of accuiatlie controllyng the 
destinations of the Traveler, k so we hadde no Notirai 
of where we wude end. either in regarde to Tyme or 
Playse. 

I do notte know vdiatte became of poore Praig, butte 
as for Myself It did notte take mee longe to fynd 
fliat I was In Englande & that the year was 1891. I 
have beene singularlie Forturiate in escaping Acusa- 
tlon as a Witche, butte bye Teechlng the Populace 
some verie Holle Songs k Hyms of mye own Tyme be- 
side other Mustek, I am regarded as beeing verie Holle. 

I hav made the valuabal k dclitefuTl Acquayntance 
of Mr. Jonathan Swift, who Is at the present Tyme 
secretarie to Sir Wm. Temple, here at Surrie. Hee is 
the onlie one to whom I have confyded my strange 
storie, 6 hee sympathyses with mee. Upon hys gude 
Advise, I am now dictatyng tbys Naratifl to a young 
Scribe who is noted for the Beautie of hys Hand and 
the Excellence of hys spellyng k Gramar. Hee is a 
retyrtng lad yclept Richard Sneerie. 

Mr. Swift has takkrax such a Faneie to mee k my 
Naratlve, that hee has consented to place a copie of 
mye Storie among hys own Works, which Woiies will 
be seald away in a Strong Bocks notte to bee opened 
until the Yeare of Our Lord 1948. I shall sine mye 
naym k Future Address to this storie myselfle, in the 
Faynt hope that if it fall into the proper Handes, the 
gude Edytor of Startlyng Stories will recall my Hande. 

I wish to close upon one Finalle note. Allfliou^ 
no-one can accuse Mr. Tucker of the thyngs I have 
sayd, 1 wysh that Miss Eunice Schaver, who has a 
Lettre in the sayme issue as Mr. Tucker’s, would 
Fecalle the Tyme Machine when the Irayte Feemayl 
Reeders set fheyre Eys upon her Admited Treacherie 
to the Fayre Sex, — 1130 B. Brill Street, Phoemar, 
Arizona. 

We wyssshe so tue — blast it, it’s contagious. 
Thanks for the riotous epistle. 

GOTLUM SPELLED BACKWARDS 
IS— 

Raleigh Evans Multog 

Dear Ed; Tliis will be the Snt letter that I have 


ever written to a Science Fiction magazine, so you 
should feel honored. By the way, the first Science 
Fiction story I ever read (I don’t seem to recall the 
title or the year, do you) was where all the earth in- 
habitants were in one si^cial city, and in that city 
people were trying to give away money instead of 
making it. 

In fact, instead of lowering the poor guy's wages if 
he did any thing wrong, the owners raised it. Also 
there was what was called a “hold down”. That was 
where people, or crooks, tried to make you take 
money instead of making you give them money. Re- 
member that story, Ed.? If so, what was the year it 
was put out? 

Your st<Htes are swell. I just finished reading the 
September ish of Startling Stories. Wheredidja think 
up them there stories, hiA Ed? My favorite story in 
the magazine was “What Mad Universe.” By the way, 
why not have some one write Time Machine adven- 
tures back in the Civil War. Do you know any writers 
that would be interested in that kind of stuff with 
Whom I could get in touch with? 

Say Ed., will you please toss this letter gently into 
the waste basket? Say if any fans want to get in 
touch with me, I will be glad to get in touch with 
them. — 7 Greenwood Road, Rikesville S, Maryland. 

Working from bottom to top, Mr. MuHog, 
we don’t know any authors currently en- 
gaged in rewriting and refighting the War 
Between the States, suh. Margaret Mitchell, 
apparently has said it all. The two novels you 
seem to he thinking of are CITY OF GLASS 
and IRON MEN, both by Noel Loomis. The 
first appeared in this magazine in July, 1942, 
its sequel in the Winter, 1945, issue. 

EXTRA SOLAR 

by R. R. F. Bailey 

Dear Editor: I received the September issue of 
Startling Stories yesterday so I took it to bed to read a 
bit before dropping off. I glanced at the first story, got 
interested, couldn’t stop, kept on until 3 in the morn- 
ing, when I found I had read right through the issue. 

“Wiat Mad Universe” is the best story you’ve 
printed In SS for many moons. In fact the whole issue 
is the best you've turned out this year. 

“Rat Race” is a very close runner up to the lead 
novel. Let's have more of the de Courcys, they've 
really got something. 

“Sanatoris Short Cut,” thou^ tops in any other 
issue, is eclipsed by the above two. 

“Shenadun” is only fair. 

Farnsworth’s article was excellent, it gave the mag 
another boost upwards. 

Whatever anyone says, notably Jim Goldfrank, keep 
The Ether Vibrates in small type. That way vou can 
print more letters. Normally I read The Ether Vi- 
brates & S F F P first, they are just two of the things 
which make SS stand out above its competitors. 

Mrs. Eva Firestone — at least extra-solar nlanets 
have been discovered, one each In the double star 
systems of 61 Cy^ni and 70 Onhiuchi. An obiect of 
low mass fnlanet' has been discovered attached to 
Cincinnati 1244. These stars are respectively 17, 11, 
and 16 lieht years away so there is likelihood of 
plenty more beinpr discovered when we get more 
powerful instniments. Who said snace was a sphere? 
According to Ein.stein it is curved, but it is not a 
sphere in the three dimensional sense. Anyway the 
term Universe Includes all the other visible galaxies 
as well as ours. 

Well that's all this tbne, keep up the good work 
and make the rest of Vol. 16 as good or bett'=T than 
No. 1 issue - — Market Place, Melton Mowbray, England. 

Now if somebody will just come up with 
an overdrive that works a la Leinster, we 
can all go calling come tea time, on relatives 
(BEM’s maybe) residing in 61 Cygni. Seri- 
ously, we’re intensely interested in discovery 
of extra-solar planets. We don’t understand 


why or how anyone should doubt their ex- 
istence. 

TIME FOR THOUGHT 

by Robert A. Rivenes 

Dear Editor; The September SS has recently come 
to my attention. It used to be that I could pass a news- 
stand without giving the mags a second glance. But 
now that I know what is hidden behind those torrid 
covers, I am drawn like a maggot to them. Although 
double ess hasn'^t got the greatest outside drawing 
power, it is tops in Sie inside. However, it can be said 
without fear of contradiction that there is tremendous 
room for improvement. (Listen to that, will you. Only 
a “stiff” frosh and all ready I’ve gripes.) 

Something that has always fascinated me in the 
chain publishers’ mags is the pre-dating of the maga- 
zines. The job under consideration is blandly dated 
September, is on sale in July, and contains letters 
about the May ish. I have tried double intergration 
but still the purpose of it all eludes me. 

Along with the new increase in lengtii, you should 
equip SS and TWS with covers that automatically 
close for five minutes at the end of a story so that it 
can thoroughly be consiciered before proceeding. As U 
is now, I go rapidly from one story to the next. Before 
I know it the end has been readied. I gfff the effect on 
recappfng of one novel made up of all the stories. I 
can’t voluntarily slow down as there are always a 
dozen back-numbers waiting patiently on the ^elz. 

By rapid calculations on ray three hands, I come up 
with the number four which represents the lapse of 
time in months between issue and letters pertaJning- 
By the time the letters are published, the stories are 
old enough for the HoF. How about taking time out 
to set up some arrangement so that letters can appear 
the following issue. I suppose with the increased size 
my big, fat, sloppy suggestion is pfft. 

Maybe the solution of stf versus fantasy can be 
dealt with by finding who, where, and why (also 
when) the distinction was originated. For a starter, 
the earliest record I can find of the use of the words 
“science fiotton” is in a 1934 copy of “Amazing.” Take 
it from there. 

Another improvement that would be beneficial would 
be the inclusion of a biogratrfiical sketch of one author 
an issue. It would prove that they are people rather 
than machines. 

And how come you have two magazines published 
alternately when one would suffice. They are almost 
identical in foremat. 

Finally we eet dcwn to the stories. 

1) What Mad Unwerse — Detective story writer 
Eredric Brown couldn’t have written a better novel 
for his entry into stf. The take-off on a certain chain, 
a certain pulp editor, and a certain fan should end‘=‘ar 
him to all fendpm. The plot, variation of the “if” 
deal, was far from static. I hope that Fred dbesn’t turn 
to stf hacking but instead waits until he really has 
something to write about like WMU. 

2) Tetrahedm of Srwtce — ^True classic but maned by 
Stilted style and prolonged drum conversation. 

3) Rat Race — Typical de Courcy humor on switched 
evolution plot. 

4) Shenadun — MacDonald, hack senior grade, comes 
up with a wordy nothing. 

5) Sanatoris Shorf-Cut — If the balls were in a 
pyramid, how coidd the operator see all of them in 
the third row. The artist tried to save that mistake 
but it doesn't hold. Really rates a minus infinity. 

61 First Target in Srtace — Non-fiction, huh? 

Thirty to the thirtieth power — 431 N. Euclid, Oak 
Park, Illinois. 

The answer to most of your gripes and 
queries, Bob, is simple. Just remember that 
the publishing business has schedules, me- 
chanical problems, deadlines to meet. Your 
question re Short-Cut has us scratching our 
collective head. We dunno. 

WHERE’S TOPSY? 

by Mrs. Eva Firestone 

Dear Editor: There ia a sequel. The title — Conquest 


of Moon Pool. Read it several years ago. A copy In 
Santa Monica library or L.A., can't remember. My 
vote is an emphatic wO to the suggestion of Furman 
H. Agee, Jr. Please notice that he is a Junior. Respect 
to our Elders is the rale. Thereby, I claim precedence. 
Isn’t it possible that this heretic Agee is liable under 
law of the Humane Society? Ninety-nine and mne 
tenths read the letters first. 

What would happen to our morale without Zimmer, 
Sneary, Ed. Cox, and Wisodsky? Fearful thought! 
And how else could we en.foy acquaintance with the 
Editor, since he won’t reveal his name. There is truth 
in the statement, that much time and effort are neces- 
sary and perhans once in awhile it becomes tiresome. 
However, you do receive pleasiare from the correspon- 
dence? Including the Rhapsodies? 

Valley of Creation interesting. ’There seems to be a 
jarring note, ton p. 45, r. Would one of this brother- 
hood slay another animal? Wish had been a picture 
of Shan Kar on p. m, instead of Eric Nelson. Realities 
Unlimited good, but why drag in mush by nape of 
neck? t^en Shadows Fall excellent. When the Earth 
Lived not up to his mark. Want more about the 
Hogbens. Hard Luck Diggings ok, am fond of Magnus 
Rid’oinh. Quis Custodiet really a fine story. Perfect 
Servant only fair. Shenadun lOO*^, Sanatoris Short- 
Cut 95%, Tetrahedra of Space 93%, Rat Race 90%, 
and What Mad Universe 80%. Could you print a story 
^ Raymond F. Jones? He wrote The Children’s 
Room. It is beautiful and needs a sequel. Thank you 
greatly for ‘First Target in Space" by Farnsworth. 
Hope to see more like this. Some day we will learn 
that the stars are not nearly so far away; That our 
telescopes maimtfy distance, just as the microscope 
creates the illusion of a vast depth. — Upton, Wyoming, 

Thanks, Eva, and for being a good girl or 
reasonable facsimile idiereof, we hereby in- 
form you that a nice shiny new Hogben story 
came across our desk recently and was 
promptly purchased. You’ll be seeing it soon. 

CHEESEBURC€R 

by Joe Scbaumburger 

dear editor, 

I 

i see people liked my other letter 
this is very good because 1 like people 
and it Is cheering to find out 
that i't works both ways 

II 

1 thot the latest ish of ss 

marvelous 

colossal 

stupendous 

and magnificent 

It almost matched the last ish, in fact 

m 

"what mad universe” was a great story 
a marvelous story 
a true classic of scientifiction 
1 say that not because my name Is somewhat 
sipiilar 
to the hero?s 

not because 1 like parallel-world type of stories 

but because it was! 

it was the best thing to hit stf since 

leigh brackett^B "shadow over mars" 

pardon me 

1 rave 

IV 

the cover 
struck me 

V 

the other sferies were ok 

“rat-race” was about the best 

"tetrahedra of space” was foul 

if h-o-f is going to have stuH like that 

then why h-o-f? 

why Indeed? 

"new material” 1 cry! 

“down with the oldl 
up with the new!” 
and anyway 

think of all the book-dealers you put out of work 
by making the old classics available 
fans read these old classics 

[Turn page] 



SELLS FIRST STORY 
AT 60 

**Stnce I am crowding thTaesooro, my 
objective in taking the N.I.A. course 
was nof to become a profesdonei 
writer. However, white still taking 
the course. / sent an article to Si* 
Joseph Magazine, It was immediately 
accepted. Encouraged, I wrote others. 
Out Navy accepted them and asked 
ioT more. All thanks to 
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%treei, Tucson, Arizonsu 

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"phew” they say, holding their nose 
"it this is the of the old stofi 
fiien what must the rest of it be like?” 
what indeed? 

so they don’t buy old wonder stories 
used-book dealers starve 
stores fold 

people lose their jobs 
breadlines I 
and you — 
it’s all your fault 

VI 

the letters: well well well 
well 

sneary was excellent — as usual 

so was Zimmer and ^>etinan and b«n» 

and dietz and wigodsky 

one small cheer for gwen Cunningham 

did i say small? 

i meant a BIG CHEER 

’BAH FOR GWEN CtJNNINGHASI! 

vn 

if this is too long 
cut out a section or two 

vm 

fanzine reviews: grrirmr 
the SAPS is not sito-saphotnoiic! 
you’re just jealous 

oh poo — 1822 Bathgate Ave., Bronx S7, Vent Tork. 


the SAPS is so 
sophomoric 
with 
or 

without 

the opening “stdi” 


if you think fcnr 
a mo- 
ment tiiat 
we are :^>oofmg 
just turn to ^ fanzine 
re- 
view 


now go 
away 

like a nice schramburgie 

A MOURNER FOR CLEMENTS 

by Lee Randolph 

Dear Ed: 1 dieer and bii^t^ perc^tibly when I 
find that jack elements hhas been told ofi so nicely by 
all my f^inine contemporaries. I see tiiat he didn’t 
dare show hi£ face this issue. 

I greatly rejoice to see so many fem-fans out I can 
remember the time, not so long ago, wh&i all the top 
names were men. But knock wtxKt our so call^ 
week-end sex seem to be getting stronger and 
stronger. More power to us! 

I see that Robyn leRoy has returned to the fold. 
I’m glad, in a way, to see his gibberish again. I sort 
of missed him. I miss ail those OTlginal guys when 
fiiey don’t show up. 

Thank you very mu<h, dear Editor, for that interest- 
big article, First Target fn Space. It was fiie most 
interesting thing in fee whole issue, asiite from fee 
letters. Ine po^bility of life on the mo<m is very 
intriguing. Perhaje with fee new Paiomar "Big Eye,” 
we can tell for certain. I hope so. 

What! My smelling salts, qxiick! Bergey has actually . 
done what the story says. That is, almc^t I am 
^leaking of the dream ^quence. Bergey, I’m proud 
(rf you. 

The novel, WHAT MAD UNIVERSE, was fee best 
story this thne. I h<^ to see more of Bir. Brown. 
Who did the fllos for feat story? I am getting tired 
of these anonymous artists. don’t you put their 


names under each picture, where a persMi can see lit 

JskA Vance, wife his Magnus Ridolph series, is 
really going to town. The story this issue, SANATO- 
BIS SHORT-CUT, is better fean fee la^ (me, but 
both were goo^. I like to see people beat a fancy 
gambling machine. It prov^ feat people are supericHr 
to any machine. At least I think that’s what it proves. 
At any rate, it proves something. 

1 had better stop this babbimg, before I start aim- 
lessly wandering in my feoughts. I’m very adven- 
turous ... in my mind. — 4429y4 Willow Brook Ave., 
Los Angeles 21, California. 

Vern Stevens did thp illustrations for 
WHAT MAD UNIVERSE, Lee. We dwi’t 
know why the artists don’t sign their work 
more regularly — ^but don’t you like to be k^t 
in the darkness? It’s fun guessing. 

INITIAL MAN 

by Charles Henderson 

Dear Editor: After reading, ”What Blad Universe” I 
felt compelled to write you my first mss. "What Blad 
Universe” will live with me forever as one of the 
most humorous and suspenseful novels Tve read 

I nearly died laughing at Brown’s version of, "The 
Life of an Stf Editor.” And my heart was in my 
throat as Keith Winton was stmnbling throu^ the 
"Mist Out.” 

Lawrence (?) did a wonderful job of illustrating 
and my favorites are pages 13 and 31. Wife I could 
have a blown up job of page 13 to cover one side of 
the wall in my bedroom. 

Earle Bergey did a wonderful job-on the cover and 
I hereby disown the SFTPOBEMO’TCOSFP as what 
would Bergey be without his Bug Eyed Monsters? 
Why. probably another Lawrence. So bring on the 
BEM’s chasing lovely giris who forgot to put on their 
di^sses. Lush, Lush. 

Shenadim is my next favorite of masterpieces and 
feould be placed in the file of HoF for fee Sept., 1968. 
The HoF, this ish, was good but it almost forgot to 
eatfe my attention, almost . . . 

Lots erf hick to fee best stf 2 lne out, from a happy 
sifescriber. for fee centuries .^ — 2146 East 

South, Salt Lake City 5, Utah. 


Once again, and with a deep sigh, that 
was not Lawrence, it was Stevens. And once 
again we pause to explain patiently that he 
took the pseudonym of Lawrence for a tinw 
only to avoid confusion with his sem, also an 
illustrator. Otherwise, thanks for a jdeasant 
note. 

EVOCATION TO KELLER 

by Paul Spencer 

Dear Editca*: 1 stopped reading TWS and ^ around 
1940, having gotten fed with their juvenility. Re- 
c^tly, hearing rumors of improvement I have been 
trying an issue now and then, and am quite pleased 
wife fee results. There is a great deal less blood and 
feunder, more originality and a greater effort at 
maturity of ideas and presentation. In addition, the 
^ work has improved KK) per c^t. especiaQy with 
those beautiful jobs by Finlay. The editorial comments 
are a delight — intelligent when serious, uproarious 
wh«i written wife tongue in cheek. Congratulations 
on your successful efforts to improve the tone oi fee 
magazine — and here’s hoping the trend upward «m- 
tinues, in which case ITI become a regular instead of 
an occasicmal reader. 

Criticisms seem to be in order, if cmly to lend tax 
air erf plausibility. 3o I’ll register violent objeetkm tot 

a. The covers. Why should I be different from every- 
body else? 


b. The bliirbs for the stories. These are usually in 
the bad old TWS tradition, aimed at the moronic type 
of pulp-magazine browser. However, I’ll admit I’ve 
seen much worse, and have no desire to press the 
point. 

c. The readers’ letters. I think you probably do 
have some readers who are out of their teens, but 
writing letters to the editor doesn’t seem to appeal 
much to adults (myself, I write perhaps one a year). 
Anyway, most of the letters you publish are pretty 
silly; the one redeemong factor is ttiat they give you 
the opportunity — of which you gleefully and coura- 
geously take full advantage — to pin the writers’ ears 
back. 

There seems to be a minor controversy in progress 
as to whether you should publish stories by David H. 
Keller. Well, that depends on the stories, of course. 
He can write poor stories as well as good ones. But 
generally speaking, I’m heartily in favor of a return 
of the Kelleryams to the s-f mags. DKH’s stories are 
usually very original, and his highly distinctive style 
lends a refreshing touch. I for one am not afraid of 
“sermons,” either, if done as entertainingly as Keller 
usually writes. 

I’ve read an unpublished Keller novel which prob- 
ably would go over well in SS or TWS: “The Feminine 
World.” I found it extremely fascinating, somewhat 
off the beaten path, and believe it deserves publica- 
tion. How about it? 

I hope the increase in the number of pages won’t 
force a lowering of your standards. Frankly, the 
magazines still have a little way to go before I’ll be 
brought back to the fold permanently, but I think 
you’re headed in the right direction . — 88 Ardmore 
Road, West Hartford, Conn. 


We’ll do our darnedest, Paul. We agree 
with you about Dr. Keller. However, his re- 
cent writing has been a bit too heavy on phi- 
losophy for our liking. He seems to be aiming 
for something far afield from our current 
policies. 

WELL, HOW ABOUT THEM? 

by Samuel Trenchard 


Dear Editor: Thanks for the Sept. ish. I enjoyed it. 
And — where’s my rubber stamp — AND HOW ABOUT 
THIMMED EDGES? I won’t blast you on the score of 
the covers. I like Bergey sometimes — e.g., this ish — 
neat and tasteful. What I don’t like are these garish 
fugitives from the beef trust, with their tattered 
scarlet briefies. So long as Bergey puts imagination 

[Turn page] 


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and taste into the coloring and composition of his 
jobs, I for one won’t kick. 

A few words on the letter section. First, Ed. Cox. 
The “news” of life on Mars is a) not really news; b) 
not really conclusive. For at least the last twenty 
years, most unprejudiced astronomers, when they 
bothered to think about it, have accepted the view of 
limited life on Mars. The newest bulletins just 
strengthen the view. But it’s probably very primitive 
life — something on the order of the primitive plant 
life found in our own Arctic tundras. No animals. And 
Weinbaumic intelligent plants are very tinlikely: 
plants, being sedentary, don’t develop nervous sys- 
tems. And except for means of broadcasting their 
seeds or spores, and the odd freak such as the pitcher- 
plant, they don’t become motile. A plant’s job is to 
sit where it is, and either make food by photosynthe- 
sis, or swipe it from decaying other life (as the fungi 
and bacteria do) . 

As for the 200-incher being of any use for finding 
out about Mars — they don’t plan to use it for that 

g urpose. The average astronomer raises a bored eye- 
row when you talk about life on Mars. He’s much 
more interested in using his stuff for making progress 
in astrophysics, space-time theory, etc. That’s what 
the Big Boy is intended for. They have a programme 
of years of star-surveying (particularly in the farther 
galaxies) mapped out for it. Why bother about our 
planets, when we can rocket there in another 20 years 
or so (atomic weather permitting)? 

But I still hope Ed makes out all right with his 
projected Maine fanorg. 

I also quarreled witti some of the points in Mrs. 
Firestone's letter. First, we definitely are not the only 
solar system. There have been at least three others 
(my information is no later than 1944) found; and 
what's more, they’re so close to our own system that, 
on the basis of probability, there are plenty of systems 
farther out. True, we can't see such other suns’ planets 
directly, but we know they’re there because of per- 
turbations in the orbits of their suns. We discovered 
Pluto, and before that, Uranus and Neptime, only 
because of their effect on the orbits of their neigh- 
bours. 

As for the geometrical location of the galaxy — the 
Universe is curved, but not a sphere. You can’t locate 
it — or any of the other galaxies — by thinking in terms 
of simple everyday experience, because the geometry 
of space-time involves a lot of stuff which is com- 
pletely outside the simple mechanical models we’re 
familiar with. In fact, its facets are so alien that they 
can be handled only as mathematical abstractions on 
paper. The best you can do in concrete terms is to 
give simple analogous illustrations. But analogy can 
be carried only so far. 

I’d like to shred the de Courcys’ science of “Rat 
Race,” but instead I’ll comment on the point raised 
by friend Agee as to streamlining the letter-section. 
Personally, I am squarely against this childish eager- 
ness for every possible line of stf. in the issue — its 
partisans would have you printing on the back page 
if they could. There is a definite place for the letter- 
section in the magazine. For my money, it’s one of 
the best parts of the issue. But I do agree that letters 
should be curtailed. 

The childish feuding and self-dramatization should 
be left out. I don’t mean that controversy and ego-boo 
should be junked entirely; but it should be kept on a 
reasonably adult level. In re that, I suggest you follow 
the course you said you were going to a couple of 
years ago <,but apparently haven’t) : that of cutting 
the letters. There is no need to include all the windi- 
ness and plays for attention (e.g., leaving out capi- 
tals, sloppy or pseudo-phonetic spelling — unless it’s 
Sneary’s — etc.). I would urge you to start slashing 
immediately. Begin at once, with the letter following 
this . — care of 445 Mt. Pleasant Ave., Westmount, Que., 
Canada. 


Okay, Sambo, we begin slashing at once. 


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166 


Dear Editor: May I 
Startling Stories. 1 don’t mean the format or the il- 
lustrations, but the quality of the stories. I recently 
picked up one of your magazines, the July issue I 
believe, and was pleasantly surprised to note that you 
had overcome your greatest weaknesses — i.e. charao 




terization, smooth writing. I have reconverted to 

Startling. 

The September issue was fair to good, with Shena- 
dun getting the nod as the best. Rat Race was an 
interesting idea, but inadequately developed, and 
poorly explained. The feature novel, What Mad 
Universe, and Sanatods Short-Cut were both fun 
reading. Tetrahedra of Space while good, seems to 
be hardly a classic. 

No doubt you have heard ^s complaint before, but 
vou never do anything about it. Your covers are in 
incredibly poor taste. 

C. A. Metchette. I was under the. impression that 
someone named Lawrence O’Donnell wrote “Fury”. 
Is M. Kuttner also Lawrence O’Donnell? If that be 
the case I*m a Kuttner fan for life. 

Miss Marion “A” Zimmer. I would assume from 
your letter that you are a reasonably intelligent yoxmg 
lady. But, my dear Miss Zimmer, you write too mudi. 
Half of what you say is unnecessary. Anyway, any- 
body who reads anything over sixteen times must be 
slightly awry. 

Ed Cox. The 200 inch won’t be used for objects as 
near as Mars. There is an explanation for this that I 
won’t go into. Your theory of Martians evolving is 
neither orieinal nor much good. There are something 
like one thousand reasons why it’s so silly. Reasons to 
both statements on request. 

Might I close with a request for van Vogt, Asimov, 
Helnleln, G. O. Smith, and M. Leinst^. — 64 Jemp Pl.y 
New York 52, N.Y. 


We’ll give you all of the above we can get 
our meat hooks on. Swell authors, every one. 
And now, we’ll carry Mr. Trenchard’s sug- 
gestion through more fully by cutting this 
short. Adios and keep writing. 

—THE EDITOR. 


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D on Wilson of 495 North Third Street, 
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done. Then, long after the issue is finished, the 
mag might be given an A-listing in yov^ review 
column. People who read that review will write 
inquiries — and answering such queries takes up 
precious time . . . My suggestion is that you 
create a special FAPA listing and review FAPA 
mags there and there only . . .” 

Very well, Don, it’s more or less what we 
tried to do in the September edition of this 
persityle. But to avoid any such future con- 
fusion, why doesn’t FAPA adopt some sort 
of cover stamp that marks their magazines 
beyond any possibility of confusion or error? 

We also drew a FAPAnning from some- 
thing called SKYHOOK, chiefly for panning 
the poetry in one of these magazines. The 
wounded versifier hastens to suggest that 
“FAPA mailings henceforth not be sent the 
promags for review” since the tone of our 
study of same was not calculated to bring in 
new members. 

Redd Boggs of 2215 Benjamin Street, N.E., 
Minneapolis 18, Minnesota, the injured party. 


168 



sfeems to pack a bit of influence in FAPA, 
for no recent mailings have turned up here 
for review. And all we said of his opus was, 
“Good thoughtful comment on fantopics 
which suffers from a sea anchor in the form 
of some of the worst verse ever (up to and 
including our own).” 

Surely, a gentle criticism. Tsk, tsk! 

The fanzine crop this time around is dis- 
tinguished by an unexpected and apparently 
one-shot revival of a former fangiant, LE 
ZOMBIE, product of Wilson R. “Bob” 
Tucker, the well known detective author 
and stfan, who has dedicated this resurrec- 
tion to the recent Toronto Science Fiction 
World Convention, otherwise and variously 



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known as TORCON. 

LeZ and Tucker are in riotous form with a 
fake table of contents calculated to drive any 
fan to the rim of hysterical lunacy and a too- 
brief interior in which we found Editor- 
Author-Publisher Tucker’s sad account of 
how he invariably missed the convention 
free-loading the highlight. Also amusing a 
future-calendar of fandom for the month of 
July, 2048, which should cause many laughs 
and not a few shudders. We wish Tucker 
would cease at once any further meretricious 
writing for mere money in order to con- 
centrate again on LeZ. 

The British Fantasy League, determined 
not to be left lagging in the ruck by more 
active American fandom, came up with a 
successful convention of its own, entitled 
WHITCON, last May 15th, which is duly 
reported by Ken Slater’s OPERATION 
FANTAST in an excellent special conven- 
tion issue as well as in an intriguing WHIT- 
CON BOOKLET. 

Present were some fifty British fans, in- 
cluding such well known authors as Bill 
Temple, Arthur C. Clarke and George Whit- 
ley (A. B. Chandler), as well as chief British 
faneditor, Walter Gillings. Captain-Lieuten- 
ant Slater, on occupation duty in Germany, 
was of course not present but sent over a 
goodly sum for general health-drinking. 

The meeting, which took place at the 
White Horse in Fetter Lane, near Leicester 
Square, London, followed much the pattern 
of American fangatherings and was fol- 
lowed by another gathering in Kew Gardens 
the following day. It sounds like a lot of 
fun and we wish we could have got over 
there somehow. 

Maybe FAPA has given us the brush but 

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the more irreverent SAPS (Spectator Ama- 
teur Press Society) have come in with a full 
mailing which we shall list pronto, before 
tackling the general reviews. With a couple 
of exceptions they are far too personal and 
amateurish to rate complete and public 
criticism, so for the most part comment will 
be brief or non-existent. 

COAL, the Peatbag Periodical, 1822 Bathgate 
Avenue, Bronx 57, New York. Editor, Joe 
Schaumburger. 

PANDEMONIUM, 200 Williamsboro Street, Ox- 
ford, North Carolina. Editor, Andy Lyon. A 
darned good job starred by summarization of an 
obsolete but intriguing German Gothic opera 
entitled DER FREISCHUTZ. Well thought out 
and well presented. 

FLASH, Box No. 6, Helena, Montana. Editor, 
Walter A. Coslet. Swap stuff and zootie. 

FROZINE, 448 Demarest Avenue, Coster, New 
Jersey. Editor, Phil Froeder. Joe Schaumburger, 
versifying amusingly about orange wombats and 
less amusingly about tribulations of space flight, 
makes this one passable. 

FUNCYCLOPEDIA, 68 Madbury Road, Durham, 
New Hampshire. Editor, Boff Perry. The title 
tells the story of this one — and it’s rather fun at 
that. 

HALF-FORMED DREAMS, the editor, whoever 
he may be, forgot to list any information. 

KEYNOTER, 584 East Monroe Street, Little 
Falls, New York. Editor, Harold W. Cheney. A 
one-man job of some merit, especially in its 
satiric study of a “big name fan.” 

NAMLEPS, 75 Sparks Street, Cambridge 38, 
Massachusetts. Editor, Henry M. Spelman III. 
Brief reviews of other SAPSines. 

THE NEW SIXER, 3 Church Street, Cambridge 
38, Massachusetts. Published bi-weekly by 
Troop Six, Boy Scouts of America. How did this 
get in here? 

FLOOR, P.O. Box No. 6, Helena, Montana. Edi- 
tor, Walter A. Coslet. Indubitably the best of the 
SAPS publications, with more meat and includ- 
ing a lot of stuff from and about Ed Cox and a 
pair of Tedsturgeon letters. 

THE PLUTONIAN EVEN MOON, 84 Baker 
Avenue, Dover, New Jersey. Editor, Joe Ken- 
nedy. JoKe in playing punning mood in this one- 
sheet interplanetary “newspaper.” 

QUEER, 1724 Mississippi Street, Lawrence, Kan- 
sas. Editor, Norm Storer. Combined with the 
defunct ARCTURUS, QUEER still lives up to its 
title. 

RESONANCE, 3401 6th Avenue, Columbus, 
Georgia. Editor, Paul D. Cox. Chiefly occupied 


170 




by a sort of hill billy space opera which shows 
some promise. 

SAPIAN, 813 Eastern Avenue, Connorsville, 
Indiana. Editor, Ray C. Higgs. Mostly gags, some 
of them mercifully not in cartoon form. 

SAPORIFIC, R.F.D. No. 1, East Greenbush, New 
York. Editor, Marion Zimmer. As our poetically 
minded editorialist says, “It’s at least legible.’’ 

SNARL, 705 West Kelso, In^ewood, California. 
Editor, Lloyd Alpaugh. Slanstuff by Brazier, 
and a couple of involuntary riots in verse by 
Davis and Grant. 

SPACEHOUND’S GAZETTE, 84 Baker Avenue, 
Dover, New Jersey. Editor, Joe Kennedy. The 
JoKe in good form as he reviews a forgotten 
18th century fantasy and tees off hard on one of 
our prozine rivals. 

THE SPECTATOR, The SAPS, according to the 
“official” brochure, seem to be broke. We hope 
someone kicks in with a contribution to keep 
them afloat. 

SUNSHINE, R.F.D. No. 4, Somerville, New Jer- 
sey. Editor, Lloyd Alpaugh, Jr. Nice stuff, some 
thoughtful, some amusing, chiefly the account 
of a fanmeeting in a NYC bookshop. 

THE VOYAGE OF BOOJUM, no address. Editor, 
Stanley G. Merritt. A cartoon issue which re- 
tails the 1& of a BEMmish giant with too much 
reliance on captions. 


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WORLD AFLAME, Joe Kennedy plugs a pro- 
phetic (We don’t hope) story of World War HI. 

YELLUM, do A. E. Garretson, Ministry of 
Foreign Affairs, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Editor, 
Ron Maddox. Best feature. A parody of Lewis 
Carroll’s famous poem entitled THE HUNTING 
OOF THE FAR. 


And now, at last, to the usual A-listings. 
Once again they dominate in quantity as 
well as quality the lesser B-list offerings. So, 
let’s at ’em — 


THE FANSaENT, 3435 NE 38th Avenue, Port- 
land 13, Oregon. Editor, Donald B. Day. Pub- 
lished quarter. 15^ per copy, 504 per annum. 

A neat if hard-to-read sub-pocketized organ of the 
Portland STS. Artwork is above fanzine average 
thanks to Messrs Day and Waible and poetry is strong. 
Fiction is represented by an F. Lee Baldwin fantasy 
and the essays on various stf subjects are thought- 
fully written by Neil R. Jones, Sam Moskowitz and 
oRiers, including a self-profile by pro-author Jack 
Williamson. All in all a good issue. 


FANTASY AD’VERTISER, 1503% 12th Avenue, 
Los Angeles 6, California. Editor, Gus Willmorth. 
Published bi-monthly. 104 per copy, 504 per 
annum. 

Still the classic modem magazine for collectors, 
dealers and the like. Featured, like all recent issues, 
by essays, chief among them being a Julian Parr 
piece of fantasy in postwar Germany and an essay 

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172 


FANTASY TIMES, 101-02 Northern Boulevard, 
Corona, New York. Editor, James V. Taurasi. 
Published monthly. 15^ per copy, 2 copies 25^, 
8 copies $1.00. 

The July and August Issues are preoccupied with 
convention activities but this in no appreciable way 
cuts down their review and general faninformation 
sections. Editor Taurasi has a Woollcottesque space- 
anecdote in the August edition that is excellent fan- 
zine fiction. 

FIRST PERSON SINGULAR, Apartment 20, 
1116 Georgia Street, Los Angfdes 15, California. 
Editor, Stanley Woolston. Published irregularly. 
No price listed. 

A promising newcomer, very nicely printed, in 
which someone has apparently taught our old cor- 
respondent, Riok Sneary, how to spell. His story Is a 
dream sequence for those who like such items. George 
Fox, Len Moffatt and Louise Hathaway contribute 
articles, John Strange a fanorthodox poem. 

THE GORGON, 4936 Grove Street, Denver 11, 
Galifomia. Editor, Stanley Mullen. Published bi- 
monthly (?). 254 per copy, 7 copies $1.00. 

Most ambitious of current fanzines if anything 
heightens its standards th's time out. A roto section 
which pictures fans and fannettes in various degrees 
of informality means something new has been added. 
Poet^ and essays continue strong although we query 
Phil Kasch, who claims the Kraaken to be legendary. 
Mine sweepers during the war are supposed to have 
come up with the corpse of the real McCoy. However, 
’tls a small quibble against a fine fanzine. 

KAY MAR TRADER, 3401 6th Avenue, Colum- 
bus, Georgia. Editor, Paul D. Cox. l^blished 
irregularly. 54 per copy. 

An increase in articles, fiction and poetry against 
the ever-present valuable swan-information and ad- 
vertisements do this issue no harm. Art Rapp and 
Bruce Pollica, along w'th Schaumburger, seem to 
dominate the proceedings despite a couple of entries 
by R. Flavie Carson. Valuable to actifans. 

LOKI, 46 Johnson Avenue, Hackensack, New 
Jersey. Co-editors, Gerry de la Ree and Mrs. 
Genevieve K. Stephens. Published quarterly. 
10^ per copy. 

Short prose takes by Gerry, Dr. Keller and Richard 
Shaver, along with a substantial letter column and 
editorial feature a magazine given predominantly to 
fantastic verse by such wdll known fanauthors as 
Mrs. Stephens, Dr. Keiler, Schaumburger, Shaver, 
Russ Woodman. Lin Carter, Flavie Carson. Marion 
Zimmer, Tom Carter and George Ebey among others. 
A mighty high-toned deal. 

MACABRE, 68 Latimer Avenue, Toronto, On- 
tario. Co-editors, Jack Doherty & Don Hutchi- 
son. Published bi-monthly. lOfl per copy, 3 
copies 25^. 

Despite horrendous artwork this is one of the best 
of the Canadian fanzines to appear. Dr. Keller has a 
deep inspirational essay on the nature of man entitled 
"Animals or Gods” 2md much of the rest of the issue 
is perforce given over to TORCOW activities. But 
entertainingly and informatively withaL 




THE MUTANT, 22180 Middlebelt Road, Farm- 
ington, Michigan. Editor, George Young. Pub- 
lished bi-monthly. 10^ per copy, 3 copies 25^, 
50^ per annum. 

Messrs. Young. Metchette and Rapp have combined 
on this, the “official" organ of the Michigan SFS to 
good effect. As much of their space is devoted to 
Michigan affairs, we gave it a once-over-lightly, 
finding Rapp’s article on the religious beliefs or lack 
of same of Charles Fort more Intriging. Artwork 
weak. 

OPERATION FANTAST, Riverside, South 
Brink, Wisbech, Cambs., England. Editor, Ken- 
neth F. Slater, Esq., Special issue. Price 3d. 

This is the Whitcon issue aiready mentioned in this 
column and constitutes a fine meaty report on the 
London May gathering. It also contains considerable 
speculation on the reason for fanzines anyway, which 
are amusing if not profound. 


PEON, 2116 Edsall Court, Alameda, California. 
Editor, Charles Lee Riddle. Published bi- 
monthly. No price listed. 

This is put out- by a Na-vy fan, who has managed 
to assemble good examples from such well known 
fanziniacs as Gerry de la Ree, Albert Toth, E. E. 
Evans and Sam Peoples. Evans wins the slightly 
motheaten bay leaf wreath among them. If the art 
improves, a promising newcomer. 

QUANTA, Room 1030 of the Transportation 
Building, 17th & H Streets, N.W., Washington, 
D.C. Editor, Miles Davis. Published irregularly. 
lOf! per copy, 3 for 25^. 

Another “official” organ (what is this — a trend?), 
this time put out by the Washington SFA. Philip N. 
Bridges contributes a lengthy prozine history which 
omits all mention of this magazine (!) and, more 
fittingly. Will Lissner leads off with a report on de- 
nimciation of American stfans from Moscow. Jittery. 

SCIENCE FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION, 
Box A, King’s Park, New York. Editor, Franklin 
M. Dietz, Jr. Published bi-monthly. 15^ per 
copy. 

Another pocket-sized ’zlne whose photo offset only 
partly conceals some mighty poor artwork. How come 
so few competent artists are fans anyway? Outside 
of Bok and Kline they’re pretty sad of sack. For the 

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rest, the mag Is okay, with a good balance of fact 
and fiction with Jimmy Taurasi contributing the lat- 
ter in adequate Ehape. 

SHANGRTLA, 1116 Georgia Street, Los Angeles 
15, California. Editor, Dale Hart. Published bi- 
monthly. IQ^ per copy, 3 copies 25^, 6 copies 50 <^. 

Editor Hart writes his own valedictory in this, one 
of the weakestVissues yet of one of the hardy peren- 
nials of Stfah publishing. As usual, the minutes of 
the LASFS metlngs, this time recorded by Jean Cox, 

g rovide the most amusing reading in the ’zine. Let’s 
ope this one picks up and soon. 


SPACEWARP, 2120 Bay Street, Saginaw, Michi- 
gan. Editor, Arthur H. Rapp. Published monthly. 
10^ per copy, 3 copies 250, $1.90 per annum. 

One of the liveliest of current fanzines, the three 
summer issues of the Kapp-Groover hektochlld are 
remarkable for luridly ghastly covers and highly per- 
sonal and gossipy reading matter by such well-known 
fans as Gregg. Nelson, Ed Cox, Mulcahy, Conner 
Stein, Weber, Singer and Paul D. Cox. Highlight of all 
three issues to us is Keith Hoyt’s documentary 
method of trisecting an angle, any angle. We’re still 
trying to figure if it will work. 

SPEARHEAD, 817 Starling Avenue, Martins- 
ville, Virginia. Editor, Thomas H. Carter. Pub- 
lished irregularly. 100 per copy. 

While William Track opens up the proceedings with 
a brash study of H. P. Lovecraft that fails to come 
off, the balance of the issue, with more or less riiort 
takes by such stalwarts as JoKe, King, Rapp, Peder- 
son, Blyler, Hudson and the like, pull this second- 
shot solidly onto the A-list despite a splotchy cover 
job. 

THE SYDNEY FUTURIAN, Box No. 61, The 
Union, University of Sydney, New South Wales. 
Editor, G. B. Stone. Published monthly. 3d per 
copy or 6 Amencan publications. 

The official organ of the Downer Unders has doubled 
in size recently, which is an excellent symptom of 
growth. But the magazfiie is still chiefly concerned 
with reports of the society it represents, correspond- 
ence, swap, news grid the like to have assumed definite 
character o&lts own. We hope this is the next devel- 
opment. 

UNIVERSE, 433 East Chapin Street, Cadillac, 
Michigan. Editor, Ray Nelson. Published bi- 

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monthly. 10^ per copy,. 3 copies 25^- 
The first two issues of a good looking newcomer 
by the increasingly active Michifans. While the first 
issue seemed a bit too naive in its approach to uni- 
versal problems, the second, with stories by Shapiro 
and Editor Nelson, a couple of passable hunks of 
verse and a quartet of solid articles, was a whole lot 
better. Walter T. Nelson gives stf authors a much- 
needed boost. 


Well, the A-’s have it and the B’s are mer- 
cifully short. So let’s get it over with quick- 
ly. En avant — 


CONTRIBUTOR’S CIRCLE, 1135 East 19th Street. 
Salem, Oregon. Editor, Lee Christman. Published 
irregularly. No price listed. Highly personalized doings 
of a West Coast fangroup. Semi-newzine stuff- 

LIBAU, 316 East 211th Street, New York 67, New York. 
Editor, Lee D. Quinn. Published irregularly and for 
free. A briefie, chiefly dedicated to the proposition 
that most prozine covers are a definite drag on stf 
progress. Who knows? 


PSFS BULLETIN, 3435 NE 38th Avenue. Portland 13, 
Oregon. Editor, unlisted. Published 8 times per an- 
num. Price unlisted. Newzine of the Great North- 
west. 


REJECT, 548 North Dellrose, Wichita 6, Kansas. 
Editors, Telis Streiff & David D. McGirr. Published 
irregularly. No price listed. Juvenile illegibility. 


THE ROCKET NEWS LETTER, 91 Pina Avenue. 
Riverside, Illinois. Editor, Wayne Proell. Published 
monthly. 15c per copy, $1.50 per annum. Not as flossy 
as it used to be but still great stuff for rocketaddicts. 


SCYXjLA, 396 Orange Street, Northumberland, Penn- 
sylvania. Editors, Harry Stnmk & Earl Dodge. Pub- 
lished irregulariv. 1.5b ner cony. This one may hit the 
A-listings shortly if its editors can pick up the pace 
a trifle — especially in artwork. 


Which brings us to the end of one of the 
longest fanzine reviews on record. We have 
tried to be fair and accurate and, after some 
of the pastings we take in THE ETHER 
VIBRATES, fail to see why any of you 
should mind getting your shell-pink ears 
pinned back. Honestly, we don’t do it often 
and hope we have stffl more ’zines to review 
sixty days from now. So be it. 

—THE EDITOR. 


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cosmos and winds up in the diametric middle 
— eight-balls have long since gone the way of 
all Brunswick-Balke-Callender products. 

But H. Felix is a remarkable man, whether 
it be for his highly understandable refusal 
to cooperate with the geneticists and next 
century’s pinup girl or for his unerring 
marksmanship with the doughnut guns that 
play a leading role in the social amenities of 
time to come a la Heinlein. A sort of Lucius 
Beebe of an age which has, mercifully, not 
yet descended upon us. 

He takes a long time to be coerced, unlike 
the reader, who, if he has any resemblance 
in taste to ourselves, is virtually certain to 
be quickly enchanted with this well con- 
ceived fable. The portraits of the scientists, 
especially one named A-for-Alpha Monroe, 
or vice versa, are so cunningly drawn as to 
be only accomplished by a member of their 
tribe — ^which Mr. Heinlein can lay justifiable 
claim to being, as well as to possibly the 
Montezuma quill cloak among science fiction 
authors. 

One of the best we have reviewed in these 
pages. 

WHO COES THERE by John W. Campbell, Jr., Shasta 

Publishers, 5S2S Blackstone, Chicago, Illinois ($3.00). 

A baker’s half-dozen novelets by the emi- 
nent editor are here well presented along 
with an introduction by their author. All of 
them are distinguished by clearness of con- 
cept and each, in treatment of what it sets 
forth, is a thoroughly individual story, con- 
nected neither in theme nor in method to its 
neighbors. 

Of them we found the title tale — ^which is a 
sort of gruesome development of Admiral 
Richard Byrd’s annals of Antarctic explora- 
tion — Blindness, a story of incredible human 
sacrifice (or is anything connected with hu- 
manity incredible?) and Twilight, a saga of 
the horrors of a completely man-created 
world, the most engrossing. 

However, the four other stories all have 
merit and it is very close to being a case of 
take-your-own-pick. The book constitutes 
one of the ablest one-man anthologies of 
science fiction that we have yet read. 


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